Èãîðü Âûõîâàíåö, ñòèõè: 21001-21500
Ìåðòâå÷èíà-äóðà÷èíà —
Îêðóæåíèå â Àäó:
"Íàñòîÿùèå ìóæ÷èíû"
 Ëæè è Ñòðàõå, è â Áðåäó.
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Ïðîäàþòñÿ â ïîëöåíû
Íàì èêîíû Ñàòàíû.
Ýòî îáðàçû ìèðêà —
Ïëàõè Ëæè äëÿ äóðàêà.
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Ñóïåð-Ãèííåññ
Âå÷íûå ðåêîðäû
Äåðæàò äåðæèìîðäû:
Íåòó íè ïðîñâåòà
Ñðåäè Òüìû è Áðåäà.
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Îáû÷àè Òîòàëüíîãî Âåêîâîãî Ðàáñòâà
"Ëþäè íèêîãäà íå èñïûòûâàþò óãðûçåíèé ñîâåñòè îò ïîñòóïêîâ, ñòàâøèõ ó íèõ îáû÷àåì".
Âîëüòåð.
 îáû÷àè ïîêîðíîñòü,
Æåñòîêîñòü çàíåñ¸ì.
È âåðó â Ëîæü. À Âçäîðíîñòü
Íà òðîí ìû âîçíåñ¸ì.
Ïðåäàòåëüñòâî — ðàáîòîé:
Îáû÷íûå äåëà.
À "íîðìîé" — èäèîòû.
Øàáëîí — çàñèëüå Çëà.
×ðåç Îêíà Îâåðòîíà
Ðàñøèðèì Çëà ïðåäåë:
Îáû÷íî ìóäîçâîíû
Îäîáðÿò ÂѨ. Óäåë
Òåðïåòü Äåðüìî äåòèøêàì
Ïðåäñòàâèì êàê óêëàä.
È ïîíàïèøåì êíèæêè,
Ãäå êðåç — ïðîäàæíûé ãàä.
×ðåç ÑÌÐÀÄû óì óòîïèì
Âî ñòðàõå: íî òàê âñå
"Æèâóò" — â Îãðîìíîé Æîïå
Êàê áåëêè â êîëåñå!
 çàêîíå âñþäó øêîëà —
Êàê ôàáðèêà äóðüÿ.
Òåðïåíüå Ïðîèçâîëà
Îñíîâîé â íåé. Ñâèíüÿ
Âñåÿäíàÿ íîðìàëüíà —
Îáû÷íûé ãðàæäàíèí.
"Æèòóõà" èíôåðíàëüíà —
Íå ðàçãèáàåì ñïèí.
Íî âñþäó òàê — îáû÷àé!
Ïîýòîìó òåðïè!
Òèïè÷åí íîðîâ áû÷èé
×èíóø — íàõðàïó óñòóïè.
Íàñèëèå ïðåäåëû
Èìååò. Áåñïðåäåë —
 îáû÷àÿõ. Óìåëî
Ðàáîâ ñêîâàëè! Ñìåë,
Ïðàâäèâ: íå äåðæèìîðäà
Óäåëàåò — òîëïà,
Òóïà, æåñòîêà... "ã`îðäà" —
Ëè÷èíà äëÿ ðàáà.
Ëè÷èíû ñòîëü îáû÷íû,
×òî ÷åñòíûõ îòûñêàòü
Ïðîáëåìíî. È ïðèâû÷íî
Âñåì ìàííû ñ íåáà æäàòü.
Äîæä¸ìñÿ Êàòàêëèçìà —
Óæå íåäàëåêî:
Çàñèëèå ôàøèçìà —
Ïðèðîäå íåëåãêî.
Ñèëüíåå Ñîëíöå ñâåòèò —
Ìîë÷èò Âñåìèðíûé ÑÌÐÀÄ.
Íó ÷òî æ, çà âñ¸ îòâåòèò
Îáû÷íûé ãëóïûé ãàä...
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Ëæåäîáû÷à
Ñêâàæèíà íàëàæåíà:
Óòåêàåò óì.
Ëîæü âçàìåí. Çàãàæåíà
Ãåÿ — ÒÓÃÎÄÓÌ.
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Ãàíãðåíà èçìåíû.
Òîëïå: "Ïåðåìåíû!".
Èçáûòèå ïëåíà —
Ëþäèøåê çàìåíà.
Çàìåíà íà ÷òî?
Íè÷òî íà ÍÈ×ÒÎ?!
Åëåé â ðåøåòî —
Çàñîð. Âñ¸ íå òî!!!
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Îò÷óæäåíèå êàê ãëàâíîå íà Ïóòè ê Èñòîêó
"Ñðåäü ëþäåé ÿ äðóæáû íå èìåþ,
ß èíîìó ïîêîðèëñÿ öàðñòâó.
Êàæäîìó çäåñü êîáåëþ íà øåþ
ß ãîòîâ îòäàòü ìîé ëó÷øèé ãàëñòóê".
Ñåðãåé Åñåíèí, 1922 ã.
Ñðåäü ëþäåé ÿ äðóæáû íå èìåþ —
Ñ äåòñòâà èùó âûõîä èç Áåäëàìà.
Åñëè ïóòü â Èñòîê íàéòè ñóìåþ,
Çíà÷èò íå íàïðàñíà â ÐÀÁÑÒÂÅ äðàìà.
Äðàìàòèçì çàøêàëåí, åñëè âåðèòü
Ðàçó÷èëñÿ, ïðî÷ü ïîñëàë íàäåæäû
È îáðûäëè ïîëóëþäè-çâåðè —
 ëó÷øåì ñëó÷àå âî Òüìå íåâåæäû.
Ìîðîê ñïëîøü, Íåâåäåíüå îáû÷íî,
Âåäü áåç íèõ äóøà óõîäèò â ïÿòêè.
Ïîä÷èíåíüå Ìåðçîñòè ïðèâû÷íî.
Îïðàâäàíüå "óìíèêîâ" — "íàä ñõâàòêîé".
Åæåëè ïîõåðèòü îïðàâäàíüÿ
È îñòàòüñÿ íà âåòðó áåç êîæè,
Ïñåâäîæèçíü âîñïðèìåøü êàê Çàêëàíüå,
È âåçäå ïðîãëÿíóò ÒÂÀÐÅÉ ðîæè.
Âåòåð ãîíèò ÑÌÐÀÄ, âãîíÿÿ â ñòóïîð —
Ëåãêîâåðíîñòü "áëèæíèõ" óáèâàåò.
Äî ÷åãî æ âñ¸ äèêî, ïîøëî, ãëóïî —
Ïîëó-çâåðü ïî ïðåæíåìó ëàæàåò:
Íè÷åìó íå ó÷èòñÿ, ëèøü òàùèò
Áàðàõëî è õàâ÷èê â ñâîþ íîðêó.
Àä âîêðóã Êðîìåøíûé, íàñòîÿùèé —
Ëîæüþ, Ñòðàõîì íåïðåðûâíû ïîðêè.
Øóì â çàøêàëå: îòûñêàòü ïîäîáíûõ —
Êàê íàéòè èãîëêó â ñòîãå ñåíà.
ÑÌÐÀÄîâ øóì âåçäå ïëîäèò óùåðáíûõ,
Òàê ÷òî íåâîçìîæíû ïåðåìåíû.
Ñòîðîíÿñü ëþäåé, ÂÍÓÒÐÈ îòâåòû
Òû íàéä¸øü, êîëü èùåøü íåóñòàííî,
Åñëè âûêèíåøü îòâàëû Áðåäà,
×òî âïèõíóë ôàøèçì â ïîëó-áàðàíîâ.
Íî ñïåðâà òû ãëàâíûå âîïðîñû
Çàäàâàòü ñåáå âî Òüìå ó÷èñÿ.
Âíå òîëïû — ñëîâåñíûå ïîíîñû
Ìèìî. Çàäàâàé, èùè, ê Èñòîêó ì÷èñÿ!..
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Ðîñêîøü áàíÿ
 Äèêîé Ñðàíè
Ïðèäíåñòðîâñêîãî Ãîâíà —
"Ðóññêèé ìèð" óïàë äî ÄÍÀ.
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Ëèòåðàòóðíûå òàëàíòû
Íà ñëóæáå óøëîé ïðîïàãàíäû.
Ïðîõîäèò âðåìÿ — ãðîìêèé ïøèê
Óìåíèé âìåñòî: ðàçóì ñíèê...
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 —
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
---------------------
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Àòü â Áîèíã, æìè ãàç! —
Áèí Ëàäåíà "ôàñ"?
Äèï ñòåéòà çàêàç!!!
---------------------
Ïðîäàæíîå íåäîèñêóññòâî
"Òàëàíòû" — â ïðåéñêóðàíòû.
Ëèçàòü î÷êî ãèãàíòû —
Íà÷àëüñòâî â ðàññëàáîíå.
È äâîéíè÷îê íà òðîíå.
---------------------
Ìèðîâîé ôàøèñòñêèé ñòðîé
Äîëáàííûé ôàøèñòñêèé ñòðîé —
Çà íåãî äóðàê ãîðîé.
Íå óùåðáíûì ãîëîâîé
Âûáîð ïðîñò: èëü ïëà÷ü, èëü âîé.
Ïî÷åìó? Óùåðá â äóøå:
Ñ äåòñòâà ñòàâÿò íà òóøå,
Ïîòîìó èì íå ñïëîòèòüñÿ —
Ãåíîöèä âïðåäü áóäåò äëèòüñÿ.
Äåãðàäàöèÿ â çàøêàëå —
È íàðîäöû âñå ïðîïàëè:
Äîëáàííûé ôàøèñòñêèé ñòðîé
Îí ïîâñþäó — ìèðîâîé.
Ïîêàçàëè ÷óìêà, âîéíû
Ñóòü åãî. Ðàáû äîñòîéíû
Òîëüêî ýòîãî — ìàðàçì
Òîæ â çàøêàëå. Ëîæü êàê ãàç
Îòðàâëÿþùèé âåçäå
Ðàçëàãàåò ÷åðíü.  óçäå
×åðåç ÑÌÐÀÄû äåðæàò âñåõ —
Íåëþäè áîëüøîé óñïåõ:
Ïîëèöàåâ íå õâàòàåò,
Ïîòîìó ñòðîé íàãíåòàåò
Ñòðàõ ÷ðåç Ëîæü. Îáìàíû ìíîæü —
Äàëå äåëàé âñ¸ ÷òî õîøü.
Ïåðñïåêòèâû? Íåâîçâðàòà
Òî÷êà ïðîéäåíà. Ïàëàòà
Íîìåð øåñòü ñïëîøü ñòðîèò ëàãåðü —
Êðàñíûé êðåñò íà áåëîì ôëàãå.
Áóäåò Ëàãåðü Öèôðîâîé,
Ñîâðåìåííûé ìèðîâîé.
Íå óùåðáíûì ãîëîâîé
Ìåñòà íåò â í¸ì. Íî òû ïîé,
À íå ïëà÷ü, ñòåíàé èëü âîé:
Êàòàêëèçì æä¸ò — ìèðîâîé.
Íå óùåðáíûõ ãîëîâîé
Îí ñïàñ¸ò.  Àä çà ñîáîé
Ñàòàíà äóðü¸ óòàùèò.
Âïðî÷åì, äíåñü Àä Íàñòîÿùèé
Íà Çåìëå. Èç Àäà â Àä,
Êîëü ïðîäàæíûé ãëóïûé ãàä, —
Ýòî öèêë çåìíîé. Èíà÷å
Æèòü — äëÿ ×óòêèõ ñâåðõçàäà÷à.
Ëèøü å¸ âî Òüìå ðåøàé —
Ïóòü ê Èñòîêó íàìå÷àé.
Àäñêèõ Ñôåð âíå — äàëåêî
Òîò èñòîê. Ïóñòü íåëåãêî,
Ïîïûòàéñÿ ðåçîíàíñ
Îùóòèòü ñ íèì, õîòü ìàë øàíñ.
Ðåçîíàíñ è åñòü äîðîãà.
Çíàíèé, ñèë ïóñêàé íåìíîãî,
Íî àëõèìèÿ âêëþ÷àåòñÿ
 ñâåðõ-óñèëüÿõ — âñ¸ ñëó÷àåòñÿ...
---------------------
Ìèñòåðèÿ Ïóòè Ïðî÷ü
Âåðèì, ïàøåì çà åäó —
 ×óøè, â Ñòðàõå è â Áðåäó:
"Ñ÷àñòüå", ìîë, â Äåðüìå íàéäó...
Ïîêîëåíüÿìè â äóäó
Ýòó æàðÿò. Äíåñü ê ñêîòó
Äåãðàäàöèÿ âåä¸ò.
Ñíîâà âåðèò èäèîò,
Ðüÿíî ïàøåò èäèîò...
Ãëÿäü, âîêðóã äâå òðåòè — ñêîò.
Ïëàí ÒÂÀÐÜß — âåñü ñêîò â ðàñõîä.
Ïîêàçàëè òî âîéíà
Ñ ÷óìêîþ. Äîñòèãëè Äíà
×ðåç ïðåäàòåëüñòâà, ïîêîðíîñòü,
Ëåãêîâåðíîñòü, ñòðàõè, âçäîðíîñòü.
Ìèð — ñèíîíèìîì òëåòâîðíîñòü.
 åäèíèöàõ ëèøü óïîðíîñòü
 ïîñòèæåíèè ïðè÷èí
È ïóòåé èç Àäà. Ñïëèí
Áûñòðî êîñèò, Àä âûíîñèò
Ñèëû, ðàç êðóãîì äåáèëû.
Åäèíèöû åäèíèö
Îñòàþòñÿ — ïàëè íèö
Îñòàëüíûå. Äíè ëèõèå
Âïåðåäè — ëèøü Ìåðçîñòü æäè.
Âïðî÷åì, ëè÷íóþ äóäó
Ïîëîìàé. "ß ïðî÷ü èäó" —
Ëîçóíã ñàìûé áîåâîé:
Òàê îñòàíåøüñÿ ñîáîé.
Îãëàñè, èäè, èùè —
Äóøó â Àäå òåì ñïàñè.
Ïóòü ê Èñòîêó — âíå Ñôåð Àäà.
Îáðåò¸øü òàì â ßâè ðàäîñòü.
Òî äóõîâíàÿ ìàòåðèÿ.
Ïóòü — Ïðîçðåíèÿ. Ìèñòåðèÿ
Íà÷èíàåòñÿ ëèøü ñ "ïðî÷ü!" —
Ñâåò ðàññååò Äóõà Íî÷ü.
---------------------
Òàâòîëîãèÿ ×óøè
Ïóùå-âÿùå
×óøü îáðÿùåì —
Ýòî ñ÷àñòüåì
Íàçîâ¸ì:
Ñïëîøü Äóðäîì.
---------------------
Èãðû çàêîí÷èëèñü —
Äàëåå ïûòêè.
Ïûòêè Óìà
Ïîä ñëîåì äåðüìà
"Áëàãà", "çàáîòû".
Ñïëîøü èäèîòû —
Øàíñîâ íè éîòû.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Äóìû òÿæêèå äîñòàëè
È îáðûäëè ÑÌÐÀÄîâ âðàëè.
 îìóò ïüÿíêè ñ ãîëîâîé?
Íå îñòàíåøüñÿ ñîáîé —
Ëó÷øå òâîð÷åñòâîì èçáûòü
Áîëü äóøåâíóþ. Â Òüìå ãíèòü
Áåç ðåàêöèè, îòâåòà —
Çíà÷èò áûòü êëåâðåòîì Áðåäà
Ìèðîâîãî, â ×óøè çëîãî,
Èëü â àáñóðäå îäîáðÿìñòâà,
Äóõ êîâåðêàþùåãî:
"Äóàëèçì" ìàðàçìà-õàìñòâà.
---------------------
Ïëàõà ïñåâäîæèçíè
"Áåçîïàñíîñòüþ" äî ñìåðòè
Äîâåäóò. Óáëþäêàì âåðüòå!
Âåðüòå â òî, ÷òî èõ "çàáîòû"
Ëèøü âî áëàãî èäèîòîâ.
Ðàíüøå ñàìî-òåððîðèçì —
Ïðîäâèãàëè èì ôàøèçì.
Ïîñëå ÷óìêà — ñàòàíèçì
 ÷èñòîé ôîðìå. Êðåòèíèçì
Äíåñü â çàøêàëå — ñòðîÿò Ëàãåðü,
Êðàñíûé êðåñò íà áåëîì ôëàãå,
Ñîâðåìåííûé, öèôðîâîé.
Âäîõíîâëÿåò ÑÌÐÀÄîâ âîé.
Õîëó¸ê ïîëèòèê-êëîóí:
Äóðåíü Ëîæüþ îêîëäîâàí
Òîé, ÷òî ñòðÿïàþò â òèøè.
 ÑÌÐÀÄ Öå-Ó — âîïèòü ñïåøè.
×óìêà ýòî ïîêàçàëà.
Òàêæå òî, êàê íèçêî ïàëà
×åðíü â ïîêîðíîñòè è ñòðàõå.
Íå æèâ¸øü, à æä¸øü íà ïëàõå
Ïðèãîâîðà ëæå-áîëåçíåé,
Íîâûõ âîéí, "çàáîò" äëÿ ñëèçíåé:
Ïîñûïàíüå ñîëüþ ÑÌÐÀÄ
Íàçîâ¸ò ó÷àñòüåì. Ðàä
Ñëèçåíü, òàê êàê êîíöåíòðàöèÿ
Íå óáü¸ò â ìîìåíò. Êàñòðàöèÿ
Äóõà è Óìà ïîäîáíà —
Ïîñòåïåííà è "óòðîáíà".
Äëÿ óòðîáû âñ¸ — ïðîãðåññ!
Âñ¸ ñèëüíåå ÒÂÀÐÅÉ ïðåññ.
Ñîëüþ Ëæè è Ïðåññîì Ñòðàõà
Âåëèêà Çåìíàÿ Ïëàõà.
Ñïëîøü "âåëè÷èå", "ñâîáîäà".
Íåñîãëàñíûå — óðîäû.
Åñëè Îñîçíàíüÿ ìàëî,
Ýòî çíà÷èò — ÂѨ ïðîïàëî!..
---------------------
Òàêòèêà ìåëêèõ ïîðåçîâ
 æèçÄíè óáîãî-ñìåøíîé:
Ïîäëûé ïðîáü¸òñÿ òàê â êðåçû,
×åðíü â Òüìå áîëüíà ãîëîâîé.
Ðåæóò Ñîçíàíèå â øêîëå
Òîíêèì íàñèëüåì. Â êðîâè
Ïëàâíî óòîïÿò. Î "âîëå"
ÑÌÐÀÄû òðûíäÿò. Ðàçîðâè
×óøü "êîíñòèòóöèé", "çàêîíîâ",
Êíèæåê áîäðÿùèõ: îíè
Ðåæóò ñëåãêà ìóäîçâîíîâ,
Ïëàñòûðè êëåÿ — "ëþáâè".
---------------------
Fate of the Poet
If you are an artist —
God forbid, a poet too —
Not chained by rotten dogmas,
Not selling lies as truth,
Not feeding all the madness
The brain-dead slaves adore,
Then you’ll be left unneeded,
Ignored by every door.
The only one who’ll value
The words that you create
Will be yourself alone there —
Your audience, your fate.
Yes, bitter is this labor:
You are your only hall,
Your judge and executioner,
The one who bears it all.
But if you are no weakling,
If whining makes you sick,
Then patience will transform you
To granite hard and thick.
You’ll stand against the darkness,
Against its poisoned art,
And none of all its traps will
Strike terror in your heart.
For whores alone are wanted
Within this age of lies.
The time for jokes is over —
A nation rots and dies.
No world remains unbroken,
Few humans still endure.
The dying lyre is choking
In demons’ drunken war.
And one thing still remains now:
To blast this hell apart,
To call down fire upon it
From fury in the heart.
---------------------
Kuzka’s Mother
There lived a fool named Kuzya —
Slow, bloated, dull and numb,
A burden to existence,
With darkness in his blood.
He cursed and stuffed his belly,
Drank deep from poisoned wells,
Defiled the earth around him
And loved the chains of hell.
For force and bribes were sacred,
His only law and creed.
He gave the devils freely
The right to rule and lead.
And through his hands the demons
Decided Earth must fall:
Make idiots of the masses,
Destroy the soul of all.
Yet Earth remains the fortress
No evil breaks apart.
She suffers long — but one day
Will show her “Kuzka’s wrath.”
The Sun itself shall aid her —
Burn parasites away,
Those lice that gorge and wallow,
Yet never became men one day.
---------------------
Deep-Layered Fortress of Delusion
Your consciousness — a layered pile of rot,
Of alien lies, oppression, self-deceit.
No trace of anything truly real was caught —
A Trojan virus floods the mind through what you feel and see.
The point is simple: you were never free,
A wretched slave through generations bred.
No choice was ever truly given thee —
Just prefab phrases croaking in your head.
A choice between one falsehood and the next,
Cheap myths where holy fools are crowned as kings,
Where Ivan wins by “God’s own hand” expressed —
In truth, the fool’s a moron on a string.
A moron twisted, turned by filthy beasts
That ruled behind the curtains since old days.
A moron burdened from his birth till death
By dull survival in the endless maze.
This biosurvival panic, cold and blind,
Transforms mankind to cattle fit for chains.
Luciferian systems of this kind
Now plan to strip what little soul remains.
Too late for fear — the final fight is lost.
Ahead there waits decay, collapse, the pit.
And further shall the nonhuman host
Perform spirit-murder’s final rite.
One thing alone remains: destroy this hell,
Call down the Sun’s consuming firestorm bright.
Enduring every wound and pain as well,
To drag the demons with us into night.
---------------------
Dissolving in the Sewer, or The Path of Spiritual Nonsense
You dream to melt your reason into Nirvana’s haze,
Escaping from the prison of this restless earthly plane.
You long to dwell in realms of “purest mind” always,
Abandoning the flesh, the astral rot and stain.
But you’ll dissolve in something foul beyond all name,
For reason barely lives within this poisoned sphere.
Half-mad degenerates exhale their toxic flame —
Dark miasmas breeding misery and fear.
This planet-leper colony is wrapped indeed around
By something like a noosphere — but not of light or mind:
A septic cloud of mental filth and garbage without bound,
A critical mass of idiot sludge mankind refined.
No mask will help the soul breathe freely there,
Among infernal realms where suffocation spreads.
Leave this madhouse — you’ll still find hell elsewhere,
And hell’s destruction is the cure that waits ahead.
The Sun shall burn this total darkness from the sky
If we invoke its fire with relentless will and rage,
So every filthy parasite at last shall choke and die
Who seeks to turn all humankind to cattle in a cage.
This filthy beast has ruled the world for ages long,
Making genocide the ruling law of Earth.
He turned both men and planet into sewage, rot and wrong —
And by karmic law shall face extermination for his worth.
---------------------
Mountaineering
Trust nothing! Trust nothing!! Trust nothing!!!
The mantra of these poisoned days.
Far better to throw wide your doorway
To some raging killer in a blaze.
Far better to swallow pure poison,
Or put a cold gun to your head,
Than listen to mobs and their sermons
Whose god is fascism widespread.
By fraud they are slaughtering millions,
Half-crazed and bewildered with fear.
Tomorrow they’ll justify all of it
With fresh lies conveniently near.
Deceptions rise high as Everest mountains,
And you are the climber they use.
Since infancy burdened with this madness,
Still somehow avoiding the noose.
Do not join the games of the jackals
Where victory’s always a zero.
Inside a cage with a starving tiger
You’d stand a much fairer hero.
Question all things without mercy —
Even “truths” carved deep into stone.
Only fools still believe in the garbage
Of poisoned words endlessly thrown.
---------------------
Diagnosis
“Man is sixty percent chemicals,
forty percent lies and rye?
But one percent Michelangelo —
that is why I make stained glass.”
— Andrei Voznesensky
Seventy percent are imbeciles here,
Twenty are schizoid or cold psychopaths,
Seven are weaklings consumed by fear,
Half a percent serve monsters on darkened paths.
Less than three percent can truly act.
One in three of them is broken inside,
One in three has been chained and trapped
By cunning lies they swallowed with pride.
And less than one percent still carries sane force.
Division devours them one by one.
Their victories vanish without a course —
Almost none bring light to anyone.
And further ahead it only grows worse.
That fraction will melt away
In the stinking swamp of a poisoned universe
Whose single theme is decay:
The slaughter of reason’s remaining spark,
The wrecking of mind and soul,
Transforming humanity into dark
Half-demons stripped of control.
The remnants of humans have little left now
But to blast this infernal domain apart.
Through exhaustion and suffering still somehow
Call fire upon themselves from the heart.
The Sun’s great fire will finally cleanse
This foul and corrupted sphere.
If mind is murdered and spirit enchained —
Then down with this stinking sewer here!
---------------------
Hopes
“I burn the remnants of festive clothes,
I tear the strings, escaping poisoned haze —
No longer shall I serve illusory hopes,
Nor bow to idols born of fraud and maze.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky
All hopes are ghostly shadows
When chaos rules the land.
Only fools endure it
And fail to understand.
No freedom can be born here,
No reason, light, or grace.
Only hearts are shattered
From youth in this dark place.
No road exists for talent
Inside this inhuman din.
Only Atlases can bear it —
This endless death within.
The death of mind and spirit,
The death of brighter dreams,
Amid the lies that pierce the ear
And rot reality’s seams.
And things will still grow darker:
True hell will soon awake
Inside this stinking swamp-world
Ruled by a fascist snake.
Only relentless rebellion
Can help us in the end,
When all the monstrous inhuman filth
We drive beyond the bend.
---------------------
Sympathile
What once was merely just a fool —
A dimwit fit for simple chores —
Has now evolved to something worse:
A “sympathile” in endless hordes.
Today he’s politician, engineer,
A plague-doctor preaching fear,
A filthy cop, “authority” figure —
Held up for children far and near.
And thinking people serve as pedestals
For this supreme and bloated clown.
The world’s turned upside down completely —
The super-moron wears the crown.
He’s cherished by the fascist order,
And not by accident at all:
For wiser minds grow weak and broken
When freaks are placed above them all.
Genocide is easy to conduct
Through countless fools that blindly obey.
And very soon they plan to build
A global prison for all the Earth one day.
Where reason, honor, shame, compassion,
Conscience too, will all be slain,
Sacrificed to hellish masters
For profit, power, fear and chain.
And spirit itself will be strangled everywhere —
Such fate is now prepared for man.
So those who still possess clear minds
Must unite their strength while they can,
For there will be no road returning
To the former world we knew before.
The only chance that still remains:
To end the demons’ feast of war.
---------------------
The Final Sum
One may sum up mankind quite simply in the end:
It’s hard for monsters to survive when horned gods still descend
To rule through genocide century after century long —
And “survival” is no word for Man once spirit’s gone.
Only half-wits dream of merely staying alive.
True humans fight entropy, create, ascend, strive —
People with a spark of reason, with spirit standing straight,
Not servants of infernal hordes consumed by fear and hate.
Where there is no creation, no fire of the soul,
There is no Human left at all — just fragments without goal.
And for ages they have murdered every Muse in sight,
Though no armed overseer stands behind most minds at night.
No evil jailer forces them to chant the same dead lies
That turn them into idiots until the spirit dies.
Each one chose this road freely — that is hell’s design:
The path of willing slavery, of hollowed-out decline.
And those few who still resist this savage system’s reign,
Who battle ancient chains of fear, are fading all in vain.
Soon this rare breed shall vanish, nevermore be born
Inside this genocidal hell where every light is torn.
One thing alone remains now: to blast this hell apart
With the Fire we ourselves shall summon from the heart.
There is no place left for this shame, this breeding ground of dread —
Soon this nest of endless misery shall burn itself to ash and red.
---------------------
Energy
So many gifted minds once walked this wounded Earth,
Creating countless wonders of immeasurable worth —
Inventions meant to bring mankind both light and liberty,
To free the poor from suffering, from hunger and misery.
Engines fed by water, burning fierce and bright,
Powered by simple mechanisms built with human sight.
But darkness will not let such things
Be placed into our hands —
That darkness ruling over us through centuries of chains,
The darkness making people forget why man remains:
Not born to serve the pleasures
Of demonic, rotten breeds
Whose highest goal is turning us to cattle fit for leads,
A scheme that chokes humanity and runs it to the ground.
Thus murder and genocide now everywhere abound —
And still the masses slumber while the nightmare deepens fast,
As if this age of horror somehow forever can last.
The world reeks from the corpses of brilliant, gifted souls
Dragged to slaughter blocks by creatures empty, black and cold.
For every spark of truth and light is crushed before its rise,
Though age after age it’s reinvented under different skies.
If we do not destroy this monstrous spawn at last,
Life on Earth itself may fade and never truly last.
For now inventions are not what humanity most needs —
But ending the inhuman root from which all evil breeds.
---------------------
Mixtures
Everything here is merely a mixture
Of exploitation and shameless deceit.
And victims no longer grow angry or bitter
At how primitive these false mirages repeat.
This mad world long ago accepted
The fraud of false plagues without a fight.
Then once again the madness erupted
With the “sheep-virus” spreading overnight.
In every mixture the balance just changes:
Different portions of lies and decay.
For falsehood is always the dominant substance —
Without it the masses would not obey.
The catechism of every system
Is soaked through with idiotic lies.
And it is deception that breeds every crisis
Inside dead structures where all spirit dies.
All systems are lifeless, and all of them chain
Whoever falls under their suffocating weight.
They swiftly and brutally murder the mind —
To follow them blindly means walking to fate.
And only dead systems are ruling this planet:
Each person a slave to mechanical schemes.
That is why the whole world has turned to a sewer —
A stinking abyss drowning all human dreams.
---------------------
March of the Senile Old Fools
Aging children mourn the past gone by,
Grinding old delusions like a worn-out tune.
They grieve because the years forever fly,
Not knowing they helped bring this doom.
They are the root of Earth’s disasters and decay,
For they never strengthened mind or soul within.
They drifted with the current all the way,
Living as parasites wrapped in skin.
Like worms that gnaw the pillars of all worth —
Reason, spirit, honor standing high.
Since childhood they escaped from living Earth,
Lost in dreamworlds built on empty lies.
The only thing that’s real is what you give
To mankind’s treasury of conscious flame.
But not true humans marched here — only fools
Driven to slaughter in the demons’ game.
Each person shares the guilt that imbeciles
Became the crowd, the ruling mass of all.
Too little strength was given to resist
Genocide and darkness spreading through the hall.
And now it’s late for whining or regret —
This filthy evil conquered all in sight.
One task alone remains before us yet:
To blow apart this septic world of blight.
---------------------
Mechanical Clown
A mechanical clown
In the Theater Absurd,
Well-trained and conditioned
To obey every word.
Conditioned by falsehood,
By slavery and praise.
The divine spark within him
Was lost in the haze.
Along with all honor
It vanished from sight
Inside this mad chaos,
This carnival night.
Now he sees only visions,
Dreams woven from trash,
Calling that garbage
“Real life” in a flash.
But already he’s tearing,
Covered deeply in slime —
That slime is the symptom
Of mind’s slow decline.
The clown is a phantom,
A servant, a tool,
A slave in the service
Of monsters cruel,
Of foul inhuman creatures
Destroying the Earth
With poisonous lies
And fake plagues unleashed forth.
---------------------
Get Sick!
Get sick, people, get sick!
Break free from the genocide of schemes.
Raise your glasses to illness —
Toast your friends and shattered dreams!
For in the name of “health” this world
Is torn apart by fascist hounds.
Your fear alone keeps multiplying
The chains false pandemics wound.
So fall ill wildly, recklessly,
Cough till the heavens split apart.
Spit across this earthly wasteland —
Drive every lie into the dark!
No fascist ever truly cared
For ordinary human lives.
Within the vomit of fake plagues
He turns men into swine.
Then with injections he destroys
The obedient fools in line,
Thus sealing shut the final chapter
Of the old enslaving time.
Beyond that waits the camp alone,
The next commandment of the age.
And on its pale and sterile banner —
A red cross for the mindless slave.
And that dead stump will soon be burned
Inside the crematory flame.
No humans left — just numbers branded,
Ultra-slaves without a name.
---------------------
Bedouin
You live in a lifeless desert,
Though no Bedouin you appear.
From your youth until this moment
You have always walked alone here.
Shake off the dust of false friendships,
Shake off love that’s bought and sold.
Stop serving all those bloody “isms”
Forged in cruelty dark and cold.
A dead city is worse than deserts —
Rot and decay reign there supreme.
All its “sacred truths” are hollow,
Dead or foolish every dream.
Everything there deserves the Fire,
Everything deserves to burn.
Only Fire walks beside you truly,
Only it can save your soul in turn.
For in hell you are a traveler,
And the journey nears its end.
Every hell without true Fire
Reeks of rot that cannot mend.
Only myths speak of pitch and cauldrons —
Your hell is this slaughterhouse Earth,
Where almost all are mindless cattle,
Stripped of reason, robbed of worth.
One thing only still remains now:
Burn this rotting filth away.
Leave the prison forever behind you,
Though exhausted, scarred by the fray.
---------------------
Unbreakable Revolt
Only fierce rebellion
Still can set us free.
All the lying vermin
Must be swept to sea.
The inhuman gather strength now
In their war on humankind.
Monstrous forces turned so many
Into cattle dull and blind.
We must stand together —
Enough of grieving lone.
Or this hell will keep expanding
Till all light is overthrown.
Then the camps will swallow
Every thinking soul alive,
And the mad obedient masses
Will be bred like cattle stock to thrive.
After that no reasonable human
Will be born beneath the sky.
An endless global prison
Will replace the reason why.
The final battle’s started —
And we shall win before the end!
We will fulfill the task before us:
Sweep away the inhuman plague we fend.
---------------------
Clinical “Life”
In childhood the soul can see the body,
And the body still senses the soul.
But later that vision is murdered carefully
So you’ll grow blind, obedient, controlled.
They kill you through dull surroundings,
Through the dictatorship of deadened molds,
Through swarms of filthy and lying doctrines —
Lifelong standards of stupidity cold.
This system was organized long ago, precisely,
Built deep into the idiot-structure of the world,
To sort through humans like beads on a string —
Though not humans at all, but mechanisms unfurled
For producing tribute to vile parasites
That captured this foolish Earth entire,
Terrorizing all through traitors and servants,
Leaving behind living corpses in mire.
And first they must hammer into your skull:
“You are only a body — nothing more.”
Thus castrating the mind to the deepest core,
So monsters may do whatever they wish thereafter —
And the inhuman perform this art with skill for sure.
And countless more tricks are hidden by filth
To twist every truth beyond all repair.
And countless disasters still shall unfold
If the true focus is not restored there.
The focus upon the soul —
Whose symbol forever is heart.
Listen only to your deepest self:
That alone is the doorway to start
Toward real life —
Bright, unchained, alive.
For now you stand at a funeral feast,
Served as food so the monsters survive.
---------------------
Point of No Return
The rot has spread so deeply now,
Corruption climbed so high,
That only defeat awaits us —
An age of chains for all mankind.
This is the final outcome
Of systems built to kill
Reason, spirit, conscience, honor —
Crushed with cold mechanical will.
And the story of genocide
Approaches now its end.
The point of no return was crossed
Long before the latest bend.
The hour of sunset draws near,
Though already this is the pit.
Human beings barely remain here —
Only half-wits drowning in it.
Obedient wooden creatures,
Pig-like shadows in a row.
And soon the rare exceptions
Will be slaughtered too below,
To make the chains more “efficient,”
To save the system strain.
So thinkers are left with laughter
As the final human refrain.
This hell will not endure forever.
Perhaps God shall return once more
Into this infernal wasteland —
And demons will tremble in horror,
Their endless feast collapsing,
Their reign consumed by flame.
---------------------
Secondary Details
In this madhouse where lies are manufactured nonstop,
Where “experts” barely care for secondary details,
For outwardly they seem important — the very top,
Yet truly they are cattle, frauds atop frauds and fails,
One must always watch the details
That linger quietly in the rear.
The shameless liars cannot track all traces —
That clan is full of fools as well, it’s clear.
And only idiots keep believing
The brazen lies now blooming wild.
For everything is easy to examine,
And truth itself leaves reason stunned and riled.
The Earth once more stands on a turtle,
Though this time built from noodles, fake and cheap.
The lies are primitive and obvious
Whenever monsters promises keep.
The matter is so crucial now
That all the forces of the dark
Were thrown into mankind’s stupefaction —
And almost all became mindless marks.
And so the mockery continues:
Of reason, spirit, honor, truth —
The very pillars of existence
Undermined since early youth.
And while deception rules this foolish world,
Still wrapped in techno-slavery’s chains,
It never shall break free from bondage,
Nor cleanse itself from rot and stains.
---------------------
Intellectual Anti-SS
To expose the methods fascism employs,
We need a network built to gather and deploy
Filtered truth and evidence on everything they do —
The lies, the blades, the systems forcing darkness through.
A mass of sites where every human being
Who refuses chains and hellish overseers seeing
Can leave behind a real and living trace —
Expose each rotten fraud laid bare before the face.
The madness always ruled by genocide and fear,
The madness casting nets to drag obedient fools near,
To pull them into hell itself and finally erase
The last remaining sparks of reason from the human race.
Neither Google nor Yandex now will truly help us find
What matters — both have long since served the dark behind,
Filtering and burying what uncensored minds create,
What free men forged for all beyond the reach of hate.
Perhaps not even websites, but a peer-to-peer domain
Where not just texts, but free uncensored search remains.
Within this lying world that step is crucial now —
Without it total ruin soon will crush us somehow.
And after that communities must rise and stand as one,
Or else we’ll rot in camps before the struggle’s done —
The filthy final outcome waiting for the blind,
For all who chose submission over soul and mind.
---------------------
Bio-Survival Anxiety
No need to worry anymore —
It’s all already dead.
From fascist dogs you’ll only get
Chains, prison, and dread.
The only hope still flickers
Inside this madhouse of fools.
Only the ignorant fail to notice
The iron invisible rules
That already have bound us,
This mad and fractured sphere —
Stronger than steel or granite,
Driving us toward a feast of fear.
A banquet for the monsters,
A meal for what is vile,
Waiting until all people turn
To cattle trained to file.
But if you are already dead inside,
Then fear can find no place.
You harden into silence
And scatter every trace
Of all your broken illusions,
Of every hollow creed —
In a world of convulsing reason,
Where solitude is seed.
And there you’ll find companions
For one last final stand —
Lonely warriors rising
With fire in their hand,
Marching to destroy evil
Without a scheme or chain:
The eradication of the inhuman root —
The source of all our pain.
---------------------
Filth-Liners
“Man, if you don’t calm down yourself, someone will help you.
Next outburst goes to this address…”
— Anonymous
Drop dead, you filthy bastard —
A fascist regime’s rag,
There’s something wrong inside you,
A bleeding mental crack.
Drop dead, you stupid parasite —
You crawling, rotten fool!
How many of your kind now
Play every dirty role?
You shove your nose in everywhere,
A swarm of useful scum —
In a world of mindless idiots
To keep the herd as one.
Cowardly obedient cattle —
The slaves of final days,
Worse than the cops and thugs here,
With muzzles for their face.
These crawling human leeches
Wear submission like a sign,
Walking piggybanks of poison,
A cancer in mankind.
They scribble endless denunciations,
Ready to betray and sell
Without a second thought — even
Their mother straight to hell.
But soon these filthy informers
Will rot and fade away,
For fascists purge their own kind first —
No trial, no final stay.
---------------------
Slavery
We must take this slavery brick by brick apart,
To understand the rotten system at its heart.
Only then can execution of deceivers start —
Once every hidden seal is torn apart.
Our deadly enemy is masked with skill and art,
Raging through the darkness, tearing minds apart.
And it uses every crack inside the weakened heart,
Spreading clouds of lies that poison thought and start
To dull the human reason, break it piece by piece.
So we must find the methods that can bring release —
Break the inner blockades, give the mind some peace,
And make the sleeping slaves see death will never cease.
The hour long ago has struck — the point of no return.
The inhuman now seeks us all to burn,
With false pandemics issued as a global stern
Command to poison bodies “for our health” in turn.
Worse genocide the world has never known before —
In former times they merely set their fishing nets to score
The clever ones for years of bondage evermore.
Now the order is extinction — nothing less, no more.
And even those who show the slightest doubt or pain
Toward this enslaved existence will be crushed again.
So all must rise to battle on this final plain —
Destroy the inhuman, even if we fall in flame.
---------------------
Madnesses
Whip yourself raw with a lash if you can still stand tall,
Pull on a faded pioneer cap and let the whole world fall,
Cut up a couple of frogs for reasons nobody knows —
Even that carries less madness than serving the system of woes.
Less insane than joining the service, obeying each rotten command,
Becoming a loyal slave marching the road where genocides stand.
Better to hang yourself quietly than be a filthy cop in the chain,
Forcing masks on the faces of cattle too broken to question or strain.
Better to swallow poison than become a “doctor” untrue,
Killing off swarms of the stupid without seeing what you do.
Better to be called an idiot, simple and out of the game,
Than a learned fake scholar justifying every infernal claim.
Better to die as a gangster than join the journalistic pack,
Who wrap every lie in garnish and never once turn their back.
Better to sink in the mud than become a bureaucrat’s role,
Imposing absurd decrees on the herd without heart or soul.
And better still never to enter this stinking charade at all —
To be reborn as a frog in a swamp beyond human thrall,
Spiting the talking cattle who think they are wise and whole,
While marching in circles toward madness that swallows the soul.
---------------------
New Globalization
The globalization of the inhuman now ends,
Collapsed into a primitive fascist decay.
And from it a new realization ascends —
Exchange without money is opening the way.
A different globalization may yet save mankind,
Still half-dead in this infernal machine.
No need for new doctrines to fill up the mind —
Just life in a garden once more serene.
For once we did live so, in freedom and trust,
Paid fully for labor in honest exchange.
But the inhuman deceived us — as it must —
And poverty followed through each passing age.
Year after year, both meaning and health
Slip away in a world where all effort is vain.
And only one thought may restore what is left —
The return of exchange without monetary chain.
It brings liberation, the health of the young,
Restores what was stolen, what once was our own.
For humanity needs so little, in truth,
And once it was theirs from the moment of birth and bone.
But it was seized by a pack of wild beasts,
Hyenas who’ve forgotten the law of return.
Yet reckoning nears — and with these changes at least
The throne of the inhuman will tremble and burn.
And freedom will return to each household once more,
All will breathe freely and forget the disgrace
Of a life that could barely be called life before —
As the filth of the inhuman is swept from this place.
---------------------
Don’t Trust, Don’t Fear, Don’t Ask
The best defense in this collapsing world of pain,
Where every mind is struck by lies like pouring rain,
Is simple: trust nothing — let that be the stance,
And new-born fascism loses all its chance.
The first attack is always just a trick and fraud,
Then fear is used as weapon, sharp and overawed.
With lies it joins its strength to raw coercive will —
It wrote the rules itself to keep its iron kill.
To guard the inhuman throne it built from rot and shame,
To crush whoever dares to even speak its name,
To silence all who wake the sleeping mass from trance —
It leaves them cast aside, denied a single chance.
But there is nothing left to fear — the wound is here.
There is nothing left to lose — the end is near.
This whole grotesque illusion, this decaying farce,
Is not a theory — it is collapsing fast.
A rotten fascist system seeks to reshape man,
To grind down mind and spirit in its brutal plan.
Cynicism peaks so high it blots out all thought —
Even “communism” now feels like a child’s cheap plot.
Nothing can be begged from those inhuman hands,
Who serve half-demons and obey their dark commands.
They know no craft but adding chains or spreading lies,
Or tightening the lash until the spirit dies.
So only one thing left: destroy this rotten place,
Where mind is executed and all honor erased.
Let fascist hounds be driven out in final war —
And joy will rise again for us forevermore.
---------------------
Corruption
Corruption flows inside our veins,
And twists the game at every turn.
It breeds replacements in our place —
New monsters waiting years to learn
How to destroy the last remains
Of honor left in human soul,
To drink away all mind and sense,
To make a mountain from the foul.
An Everest of filth and shame
Will stand as monument alone
To all betrayals of the roots
That sane minds once were meant to know,
So children would not turn to beasts,
Nor leave the ranks of humankind
That still keep fighting in this world
For truths the system seeks to blind.
For those ideas that still prevent
This rotten world from crashing down,
That make the wounded spirit grow
Instead of letting it drown.
And only one last question stays
Inside this filthy madhouse now —
Unavoidable, sharp and bare:
Have you already bowed somehow
To inhumanity within,
Or shall we rise and bring it down?
---------------------
Puppet Factory
If once they used to mold a doll
And call it “citizen” with pride,
Now in this rotten world at all
One single conveyor runs worldwide.
A conveyor for production
Of crawling worms in endless line.
No butterflies will ever rise from
These broken shells of humankind.
It’s ugliness when spirit’s missing,
A shame when reason’s crucified,
A curse when half-beast creatures glisten
While crushing those who still have light.
And those same crawling worms devour
The last remains of human art,
The fragile sparks that still divided
Man from the demons at the start.
From demons who have ruled this planet
For countless years without restraint,
Who at the final feast will turn men
To waste and filth and moral stain.
And now they even send for testing
“Food” composed of rot and lies.
Just madness left to be injected —
And then the whole world quickly dies.
Already little now is left here
After their endless raids of spite.
And only one task still remains —
Though weary: end this plague of night.
---------------------
Masquerade
“Today there will be a masquerade…”
— from a well-known song
And tomorrow still the masquerade
Of fools inside the global ward,
And soon each one will gladly trade
His head for filth worn like a crown reward.
They’ll wrap the dung like sacred turban,
Refined into a “protocol,”
While sentencing of human reason
No longer sounds like any joke at all.
Then toilet bowls will be our helmets,
A sign of “loyalty” and “care,”
Gas masks strapped on like obedience,
With bandaged blindness everywhere.
We’ll cut off heads and stitch on something
Where sense once lived and thought once grew,
No need for cops or guns or order —
All human memory will be new.
A paradise, they’ll call it loudly,
Good news will spread in every tone,
The world will drown in that sweet heaven —
Where all are baptized in shit alone.
---------------------
Intoxication of Poetry
The haze of poetry distorts
The ugly truth we should behold.
It pulls us off into its ports
Of tears, of lust, of nonsense old.
No room for sentiment and weeping
In worlds where genocide holds sway.
No need for lyric dreams or keeping
“Romance” while reason slips away.
No “passions under moonlit heavens”
When spirit itself is under hunt.
It matters not what you are feeling
When monsters sharpen every front.
You may still sense the pulse of nature,
And speak with children face to face —
But still the beasts are never waiting,
They move to strike the human race.
The final battle has been started,
And nearly lost already now.
Which only means — no time for dreaming,
We must defend the Earth somehow.
But bows are not made out of tears here,
And no moon hears a battle cry.
Don’t act like senseless wooden statues —
At least build ramparts, stand, don’t die.
For poetry has always carried
A light that calls us from behind,
That gives us strength, that lifts the weary,
And leads the broken into fight.
---------------------
Again
Again this process keeps unfolding —
The making of beasts from human clay,
Where all that’s left of their existence
Is servitude to demons’ sway.
Again they pour their full resources —
Politicians, schools, the propaganda press.
The final output: human wreckage,
More broken than in past excess.
And once again there’s no shortage
Of volunteers who serve in fear or will,
The noose of enemies keeps tightening,
Until there’s nothing left but still.
Just ash remains of mad civilization
That bent once more before the same old throne.
It’s turned into a stinking restroom,
Where trembling man is skin and bone.
But soon, they say, there comes deliverance —
Death spreading out its saving wing.
Destruction ends this long corruption,
And stops the world from everything.
---------------------
Lena
A simple, modest woman she stands,
Who helps in all she can and does,
Crowned with kindness in her hands,
In care both night and day she was.
She was never touched by dulling minds,
Nor dragged into the vulgar tide.
In this world where corruption blinds,
She chose to live with heart and pride.
May fortune walk with her in silence,
May her family thrive and grow.
For every task she meets with patience —
May friends help Lena as she goes.
---------------------
Friendship
Only comrades standing side by side
Can be called a friend today,
When a fascist vulture circles
And would see us all as prey.
There is no time for idle dreaming
Of the fogs of yesterday.
No use repeating empty slogans
For the fools who lose their way.
We must stand together, unified,
And overcome the inhuman tide —
Or else the night of neo-fascist rule
Will once again expand and rise.
We must begin to build a world
That stands apart, self-sustained and free,
To shatter all the inhuman banquet
That feeds on our misery.
Only true communities can save us
From the doom that draws us near.
There is no time left for hesitation —
The night is almost here.
---------------------
Fascism
The age of fascism has arrived —
A feast of rotten, twisted forms.
Hell’s darkness thickens all around,
And truth itself dissolves in storms.
The foolish masses bow their heads,
While traitors take the stage with pride.
And human beings serve as plates
For lies that spread from every side.
Goebbels himself seems tame and small,
And Hitler looks like child’s play now.
The bitter lesson will repeat
Its cycle once again somehow.
But all their rage is wasted noise —
This hell will never bloom in peace.
The bond of Sun and Earth remains,
And all their filth will burn and cease.
---------------------
Adequacy
Any reaction is justified today
If it smashes the global lie in its way,
That’s forged by the scum who serve and obey
The new fascist order growing each day.
Multiply them by all their vast resources —
All propaganda posts are already sold.
It’s harder than ever to track real courses
Of truth in a world that is bought and controlled.
Soon even tails will begin to grow
From the pressure of lies they constantly throw.
The harshest of ages is already here —
Where even remaining reason disappears.
No need for reason in this stinking madhouse,
Where different laws rule the herd of the blind.
The pure flame of spirit is danger now —
A storm that breaks every chain it can find.
And soulless creatures become the result
Of a decline that shows no end in sight.
This world has long been abandoned by God —
And only in myths do we find the light.
---------------------
Fascism’s Bootlickers
Put out the light, shut down your hearing,
Kill conscience, bury what is right.
Sell off your soul without any fearing,
Keep only flattery through the night.
Lick every fascist hand and power,
Hunt down the thoughtful, break them all.
Doctors and cops and bureaucrats together —
A plague of lice that spreads and crawls.
But Judgment comes, and soon it’s nearing —
The rope already weeps for you.
No hole, no lie, no hiding place will shield you
When final reckoning breaks through.
---------------------
Eruditia of Nonsense
Too much “erudition” can quietly kill
The living, flexible mind within.
In those dead heaps of borrowed skill
No solid ground for thought is seen.
So much deception has been poured
Into this mad and broken age.
It leaves the heart forever scarred —
When lies are treated like a sainted sage.
The pressure of inherited “knowledge” and lore
Pushes real thinking further away,
Crushing the source of what never was before —
Generation after generation thrown astray.
And all these systems of education
Are aimed at producing refined confusion.
The ones who rule this rotten civilization
Have long understood this delusion.
Only the spark of true creation
Can still guide a human through.
It is a sting to fascist domination —
It lights up the night it breaks in two.
---------------------
No Salvation from Outside
There is no salvation coming from elsewhere —
The genocide is brutal, its power runs deep.
We see corruption rotting the world everywhere,
Yet still there remains a path we can keep.
We’ll build a new kind of economy,
Where free exchange becomes the law.
The world is collapsing — a house made of cards, you see,
To be blown apart by lies at its core.
We’ll bring into being new principles, clear and strong,
Where basic income belongs to all.
The inhuman system has led us too long —
There’s no other way but to end its fall.
And this movement itself is a form of salvation,
A chance left for everyone still alive.
The destruction of slavery and degradation
Is the balance where labor and freedom survive.
---------------------
Deleting a Channel on YudoTube
YudoTube has granted me an award —
A verdict on my “merits” shown.
But in truth it serves the fascist horde,
One of its earliest servants known.
The fascist order has no shortage
Of lickspittles and bought-in souls.
The whole Earth trembles at their bondage —
Not some “predictor” sets the toll,
But simple, mindless swarming vermin,
A blind and rabid mass of decay.
They spread and breed without discernment,
Consuming what is left of clay.
At first they look like model citizens,
So polished, empty, safe, and tame —
Yet hollow minds with no resistance,
No spark, no depth, no inner flame.
This inhuman swarm is well-directed,
Grinding what remains of man.
Its aim: complete re-engineering —
To turn us into hellish clan.
But all their arrogance is wasted —
The fascist madhouse will explode.
They’ll never forge mankind to cattle —
And death itself will break the code.
---------------------
Timofey Volkodavovich
There lives a clever hound
In the land of fools and clay,
For whom it’s never doubtful
Where dinner comes each day.
Hunting runs in his bloodstream,
An instinct old and true.
But trouble slowly creeps in —
There’s nothing left to do.
All wild game has vanished,
Only sheep remain in view.
No chase, no thrill, no struggle —
Just herds to push through.
Volkodav, oh sheep and silence —
What a weary, bitter game.
For the hunter, only prey remains
Once wounded just the same.
---------------------
Song Announcements
This song was born from “Golitsyn” as its base,
Videos are linked beneath this very verse.
Same melody continues through the space,
A fight so you don’t end up bound and coerced.
An old song now — already more than year gone,
Reminding us: inhuman breeds all lies.
That is the nature of the rotten ones drawn —
First lie, then pile it higher as it multiplies.
---------------------
Titanium Lady
The Titanium Lady is working through the night,
No steel wire can ever hold her in its bite.
No iron press can crush her, no matter how it strains,
No weight of iron burden can break her steady gains.
She stands within the battle that we are forced to wage,
Without such kindred fighters we’d vanish from the stage.
When ranks are breaking, scattered, and hope is running thin,
She leads the spark of movement — the final fight to win.
Intellect is her weapon, and sharp it always stays,
The only law she follows is victory’s straight ways.
She shatters every falsehood with effortless disdain —
So tremble, frauds of doctrine, with all your lies in vain.
We wish the Lady ISKRA fortune in every stride,
A modern Joan of Arc, but code instead of sword at side.
Her battlefield is digital, her tool a glowing screen —
And through her hand, the coming win is already foreseen.
---------------------
Venus and the Cannibal
She looks just like a Venus statue,
That Greek-profiled, marble grace.
Her speech is calm, with careful measure,
Her food — a kind of hypnotic trace.
Even the Cannibal feels uneasy —
She teaches culture where he stands.
The torture cycle starts repeating,
For he still hungers with his hands.
This Venus figure is quite strict now —
No games are left within her sight.
She’s sharp, she’s wise, she trusts in heaven,
And dries the thirst that feeds the night.
No more the craving for blood and feeding,
No more your dark poetic art.
You’ll only frown a little, quietly,
And write soft tales for children’s hearts.
You’ll turn into a model citizen,
Forget all anger — serve your role.
You were a flawed son of the homeland,
A boil beneath its guarded soul.
---------------------
Winnie the Pooh
Winnie the Pooh once lived with Piglet
In a hellish world of twisted lies.
He was quite pleased with his reflection —
A fool is proud of his disguise.
And there was also Donkey with them —
As donkeys always rise in rank.
And what came after? Nothing worthy —
Just nonsense, foul and blank.
The pig put on a muzzle proudly,
The donkey turned into a “doc.”
And NAWAZ published donkey teachings
On how to serve as execution stock.
The donkey gives the poisoned injection —
And Winnie Pooh is gone at last.
While Piglet leads the cruel inspection
Of those who merely ate too fast.
A grim fairy tale is forming
For children who have grown in age,
Who once believed without suspicion
In every lie upon the stage.
---------------------
Tatyana and the Man-Eater
Her cooking is beyond all praise,
A craft no words can quite contain.
The Man-Eater has lost his phrases —
His angry verse has gone in vain.
He’s gone mute, abandoned writing,
Now searching for some softer tone.
Women, to him, are pure poison —
He fears them down to the bone.
It’s easier among the mindless masses,
To brand and curse the human throng.
To shout at chaos as it passes,
And call the whole world wrong.
But Tatyana stands composed and steady,
No fear, no shame disturbs her sight.
She meets the raging, savage pack
With calm that cuts through night.
The packs that drive the dull and broken
Toward camps of final age,
May she be granted ancient strength
To stand upon that stage.
May she keep peace within her spirit —
The rarest thing in this land.
And may the flies of fascist filth
Be swept away by her hand.
---------------------
Punitive Pseudomedicine, or the “Bananavirus Doctors”
Positive PCR tests for the bananavirus
Come back as avocado, banana, and machine oil.
Corrupt little bastards,
Shit-stained vocational grads,
Petty informants in glasses of darkness,
Foreign to mind, to thought, to any sense at all.
Sadists in white “French coats,”
With weapons made of sterile white planks —
Their path, alas, is “honored”
By victims lined up in coffins of ranks.
Judas of modern fairy tales,
Preaching old “viruses” anew —
This species is more dangerous
Than rabid dogs ever knew.
Beasts now guarding “human health” —
What kind of joke is this?
In truth, it is a funeral wake
For reason — which no longer exists.
They know no limit, no restraint
In violence against mankind.
Bespectacled zealots and venomous hags
Show no mercy to the blind.
To strap a muzzle on a child
In burning summer heat and glare —
Only a villain of F;hrer-grade
Could even dare go there.
If only that virus were real —
A chimera, a manufactured lie.
Even “shit-virus” testing passes
With banana as reply.
The “patient” of these informants
Is nothing but a walking fruit.
And judging such a pack of monsters
Is not our role or pursuit.
If we keep swallowing silence,
Enduring this grotesque parade,
These filth will push psychiatry itself
Into a throne they have made.
We’ll be injected with “vaccines”
That kill a year or two ahead —
Such is the medicine handed
To the living and the dead.
In war, even occupation police
Are just flowers by comparison.
These parrots in white coats instead
Are enforcers of a darker mission,
Serving a force far worse than the Reich —
And this present fake is just the first strike.
---------------------
A Terrible Tale of the Grade “Two”
My hands grow heavy, falling low
From work that leads to nothing true.
It isn’t boredom crushing so —
It’s loss of everything we knew.
The very base of life is gone,
And love has lost its place and name.
We stand at wakes where nothing’s born,
With poisoned blood within our veins.
A wake for spirit, dying slow,
For reason gasping in its cage.
All that we hear and come to know
Is buckets filled with filth and rage.
With propaganda as its sewer,
That pumps out waste in endless flow,
And there remains a grade of failure:
The liar joined with idiot below.
Who can still listen, still endure
This endless stream of poisoned air?
It kills the soul, leaves nothing pure,
But leaves its mark of ruin there.
A mark of madness growing stronger,
No sarcasm can cut it through.
All that remains is shame and fire —
To burn with what we cannot undo.
For what is left of humankind
Is only ashes, worn and spent.
And all that lingers in the mind
Is weariness of years misspent.
---------------------
Lethargy Is Not Sarcoma
“Lethargy crawls like a lizard in the bones,
And the heart, with sober mind, no longer burns in fights,
No longer catches breath in dizzying tones,
No blood goes cold on twisting flights…”
So… lethargy crawls again inside your frame?
Then spit on it — just spit and rub it through.
There’s nothing left to lose: all round is shame and ash and blame,
No dawn of Reason ever breaks in view.
Go fight your final battle — even alone,
And frankly, outcomes don’t deserve your care.
This world of merchants fits the dogs alone —
Learn how to die with dignity laid bare.
A bitter skill: the worm returns again —
That worm of fear, disguised as “common good.”
You listen to it — you are just stain and plain,
Too well you listen — and you’re bought for good.
Reject all lies, or you are lost before
Your body even rots into the ground.
You’ve entered Hell — the Mirror’s crooked floor,
Where bliss is just a prison nicely crowned.
To cut away the lie is to cut yourself,
Alive — no anesthetic for that pain.
You cannot walk through Hell with peaceful health,
If calm inside — you’re part of its domain.
You’ll always stand alone if honesty is all you take,
This burden years will bring into your hands.
Just spit on lethargy — don’t ever make
That one forgetting your last stand.
You’ll lose much more — that’s trivial and dust,
Only the truth will carve a burning line.
But many here are empty husks and rust,
So Hell becomes a total, living sign.
Approach them like a psychiatrist would —
Don’t waste your nerves on every broken mind.
Expect nothing at all, nor any good:
A wounded Earth awaits its end defined.
The soulless will be swept away in flood,
And those with soul will still be judged the same —
For fascism that stains the global blood,
Has made us all responsible for flame.
Lethargy will matter less and less with time —
Shift all your weight inside your inner space
Toward total effort — strain that feels like prime —
For that alone has value in this place.
It is all alchemy — it comes to those
Who fight and throw away their trembling fear.
If you don’t get it, then you’re just composed
Of dust — and dust is all this world holds here.
Lethargy, lizards, dust, and sticky dread —
All marks of Hell engraved into the soul.
And soul must know it, or it’s finished, dead:
The infernal scab will swallow it whole.
---------------------
Our Infernal Song
“Everything is wrong —
not by accident at all:
The world is in the grip of beasts,
of monsters at the wall.
If you believe the creatures,
and do whatever they demand,
you open every door to lies
and lose your rebel hand.
You forget defiance
in the slave’s dull trance,
and die inside the madness
of fascist circumstance.
If you just keep swallowing
each fresh wave of lies,
you kill your own perception,
you murder what inside you cries.
Don’t believe them — struggle
with this infernal host.
Wake up at last and be yourself —
that is what matters most.
All power lies in spirit —
that is what you are.
Let the dogs all rage and snarl —
ignore their false “bazaar.”
Run inward fast — the answers
live only there, inside.
The song of beasts is over now —
a cataclysm arrives. And if you hide —
then you walk with the beasts
into a new infernal state.
In that world of ruin,
Satan sets the rate.
But spirit’s force is greater
than all demonic schemes.
Be sharper, lighter, wiser —
escape their deadly dreams.
Avoid the petty hazards —
idiots are everywhere.
The filth is your true enemy —
expose it if you dare.
Light up their rotten workings
with clear and steady sight,
and through analysis you’ll see Hell —
no scripture gives you light.
Only intuition, vision,
can guide you through this place.
All that is truly tradition
is what the divine gave us in grace.”
---------------------
Chariot to Hell
The stupid crowd, like mules in harness,
Is yoked together, row by row.
They follow blindly through the darkness,
Obeying drivers they don’t know.
A sickness eats their minds and conscience,
Their honor, spirit, all decay.
No sign of protest, no resistance —
To inhuman command they stay.
They’re ready to believe in fables,
As dumb as only fools can be.
And all they know beyond this chariot
Is just a tiny hole to flee.
They crawl inside and call it shelter,
A place to hide from endless strain,
Though all around is modern Sodom —
No one escapes that foul domain.
The diagnosis is final, cruel:
No cure for slavery in the mind.
This rot has reached the deepest layers —
No hiding place, no peace to find.
This filthy world is doomed to vanish —
No other fate can it attain.
When mind is dead and spirit shackled,
The only exit is through pain.
---------------------
Old Shark Scare Tales — Like the New “Bananavirus”
The main weapon of fascism is nonsense —
turned into fear, inflated into myth.
Even a Chukchi in a yurt feels danger
from a foreign monster,
with strange teeth like cast iron,
a mouth like a storage shed.
This wonder-beast is frightening as plague itself.
And no “statistics of a fool”
can trick our instinct and caution.
Not even some foreign, slightly parasitic,
soft, miracle-sweet,
Chupa-Chupa-Chups-like absurdity
will calm it down.
So — beware! beware!! beware!!!
But now the nonsense has grown filthier,
more monstrous, more aggressive.
Creatures from the underworld
are turning people into cattle
through pure, unfiltered nonsense —
stripping away all human sense.
No miracle will come if we obey,
if we accept this monstrous lie,
if we fail to expose and destroy it.
The scarecrow of fascism
must be burned by everyone.
---------------------
My Wide Native Land Once More…
My land has long gone dull and hollow,
A slave beneath an iron heel.
I know no other place so sorrowful,
Where centuries of rot are real.
This is the land where breathing freely
Belongs to fools without a mind.
Where only those completely empty
Find open roads of any kind.
A land where talent finds no pathway,
Just dead ends fading into dust.
Where childish rulers feed on weakness,
And break whatever they mistrust.
Herds of obedient wooden cattle,
Half-human shadows in the line —
A crowd of cops, a crowd of criminals,
Half-demons bred through endless time.
A land where everything has rotted,
Where nothing living can arise.
A land where even strength has vanished,
And no return to humans lies.
A land where masks have replaced banners,
Where silence rules from shore to shore —
A vale of slaves in quiet darkness,
And chained obedience evermore.
---------------------
Fate of a Slave
In childhood, broken slave-like parents
Pour nonsense straight into your head —
Their bitter fate, their failed inheritance
Is handed down in words unsaid.
Then school becomes a grinding Moloch
Of crafted lies that kill the mind.
Drill and memorization follow —
A winter buried deep inside.
Few are those who, despite this damage,
This winter lodged within the soul,
Can break through layers of programmed passage
And avoid becoming just a fool.
That barrier is pseudo-knowledge,
And every kind of learned disguise,
Forced into minds from early childhood,
Where bleeding traces never die.
Universities continue pouring
Their buckets full of mental grime,
Turning humans into cogs and workers
In slavery refined through time.
A system built for feeding demons —
Inhuman forms of flesh and breath,
Who made a shrine of mass extinction
And harvest minds from living death.
They turn the human into trembling
And broken beast of earthen clay,
Who once was not so far from wholeness
Before they stole his path away.
And so to keep the slaves from fleeing
They built the myth of virus fear —
A Moloch dressed in false pandemic,
To keep the cages ever near.
That Moloch is a road to slaughter,
A digital and silent hell.
If you refuse to stand and struggle,
You’re meat already in the cell —
No turning back, no other exit,
No story left for you to tell.
---------------------
New Methods of Old Fascism
Lies are flying through the ether,
Spreading foolishness each day.
Truth is gone from this dull world now —
A victory for inhuman sway.
The stench of delusion lingers,
Sticky, hard to wash away.
It builds the walls of modern ghettos
From which there is no escape or way.
Fascism rules through crafted falsehood,
Herding fools into their pen.
It grants no peace to humankind here —
Just digital chains again and again.
It cannot live without its servants:
Where once there stood a single hand,
Now stand deceits and masks and symptoms,
Doctors, police, command.
This “virus” myth is spread like terror,
To cleanse it, they proclaim the way
Is killing those deemed “uncontrolled” —
A poisoned needle takes them away.
There is no path back to the old world,
No simple return from what has come.
But not the inhuman alone is guilty
For this collapse of mind and tongue —
A collapse of lies believed so blindly
By fools who never questioned signs,
A rotten fog that numbs perception
And kills both spirit and mind.
Only death becomes the exit
When everything is burned away.
We answer hell with hellfire —
It is time to make it pay.
---------------------
The Final Ball of Fascism
The madhouse of the nation
Has reached its final feast.
So strangely familiar —
Farewell, insane world at least.
For long we’ve known stupidity,
Genocide, and fascist hand.
It is through sheer stupidity
That hell is born across the land.
Through stupidity and blindness
The inhuman rises high,
Through lies it bends the human being
Till human in them slowly dies.
Turned in an instant, without warning,
Forgetting dignity and name,
Reduced to herd-like degradation,
A plunge into a living flame.
A swimming through a sea of sorrow,
Of madness, grief, and bitter pain.
All hopes are bent and crushed tomorrow —
All effort rendered far too vain.
For only fear and open bribery
Are mechanisms left to rule,
Through which the fascist masquerade
Still reigns and plays the world’s last fool.
---------------------
Imitation of Sasha Chorny
“Under lamp-light it is pleasant
To read kind and gentle books,
To examine faded etchings,
And to tinker with piano hooks.”
— Sasha Chorny
It is pleasant in the frenzy
Of delusion’s choking air
To sharpen blog-born criticism
While the plague of fascists stares.
Just to swallow rotten feelings,
Numbed by terror, void, decay,
All the art of inner freedom
Long erased and swept away.
Surrounded by a hellish banquet
Of the arrogant and vile,
You season your confused reflections
With poisoned passions all the while.
Only bribery and treason
Now command the foolish throng.
And the world has shifted sharply —
All the sheep are lined along.
And for sheep there comes the “solution”:
Needle, fear, or golden bait,
Either lure them with illusion,
Or with panic, or with hate.
There is no escape from madness,
From this idiot-designed machine —
Even fools will sit in judgment
In the digital guillotine.
Only fire can end this ruin,
Burn the circus to the ground,
So the Earth, once more unwounded,
May breathe where none of them are found.
---------------------
Creation of the Forces of Creation
Dim is the world, and no exit is given
From this infernal crowd of half-wits and fools.
Even Nature herself now is shaken and driven
When man turns to stone and forgets all his tools.
So now for the wise, in this darkened hour,
There is only one path — to build against shame:
To let a new seed of nobility flower,
And grow like a crystal in truth’s steady flame.
Justice in exchange is the base of all living,
No slave is a man — but a sovereign whole.
And to stop panic’s return and its giving,
A basic income steadies the soul.
For fear is the pillar that props up this prison,
Yet Earth is abundant — it feeds every hand.
With basic support, no more cruelty’s risen
Against those who are free in this generous land.
So now for all good men, in this darkened hour,
There is only one path — to build against shame:
To let a new seed of nobility flower,
And grow like a crystal in truth’s steady flame.
Nature rejects all the curves of expansion,
Quality wins over quantity’s lie.
We end all these endless experiments’ tension
When blind growth is seen as the reason to die.
So quality now becomes law and foundation,
A different algorithm takes command.
This new ... has formed its creation —
And it will dissolve this worldwide wasteland.
For the thinking man now, in this darkened hour,
There is only one path — to build against shame:
To let a new seed of nobility flower,
And grow like a crystal in truth’s steady flame.
Dead money will vanish — its system of chaining,
The poison that bound all labor in fear.
A new measure of value will soon be unchaining
The roots of oppression that ruled for years.
Globalization of inhuman forces has ended,
It slid into fascism, blind and insane.
A new unnamed dawn will soon be extended —
A better globalization that breaks every chain.
We’ll save both the Earth and the human relation,
The planet will bloom like a garden once more,
Unspoiled by the beasts of that dark domination,
Where fascism’s master still rules from its core.
---------------------
In Memory of Mandelstam
“I am deadly tired of life,
I accept nothing it brings my way,
But I love my poor native land,
For no other I’ve ever seen.”
— Osip Mandelstam, 1908
But back then the flame was still fading and low,
The genocide’s furnace not fully aflame.
If the poet had known — had he truly known —
That the fascist machine would rise all the same…
That the Silver Age was a final bright spark
Before decades of darkness would swallow the light;
That fascism had already risen in dark,
And would rule through the centuries, endless in night.
That it turns human beings to cattle and throng,
To obedient herds in mechanical chains;
That for soulless and hollowed-out masters so long
Even poets would vanish like snow in the rain.
That he too — though a giant of word and of mind —
Would be lost in a camp with no grave to his name;
And that Marina would later behind him
Step into the rope, extinguished by flame.
That war would be nothing but flowers in hand
Compared to the slaughter the future would bring,
Where fake doctors and brutal state guards of the land
Would reshape all the world with a poisonous sting.
That death in the camps for the gift of one’s soul
Would be only a fragment of horror to come;
That the madness engulfing the world as a whole —
The decay of all conscience — had only begun.
For this kind of hell there is only one end,
Only one resolution remains in its wake:
Total burning — complete and consuming descent —
For the Earth itself, for the Earth’s own sake.
---------------------
Going with the Current
In hollow realms of twisted logic,
Where every step is weakness found,
The halls of vile deceit were logic
By inhuman hands once proudly crowned.
They wage a war of transformation,
To turn the human into beasts,
To erase all inner illumination
And leave only fear that never ceases.
For years their task is decomposition —
To scatter chaos, fear, and lies,
To build from it a new derision,
An infernal world that never dies.
And humans bear a share of blame
For all this rot that truth denies —
Too dull, too blind, too much the same,
A herd of fools with vacant eyes.
Of course, the beast-machine has aided
This dulling down of human thought,
But that alone is overrated —
Not all the blame is there it’s caught.
For each in youth has made his choosing:
To drift along the stream’s demand,
No rack, no blade, no threat of bruising —
Yet still they chose the sinking sand.
And so they drift toward final stations,
The slaughterhouse that waits ahead.
And history erases nations
Of blind men walking, dull as lead.
---------------------
The Fortress
Fascism says: you are only flesh.
Genocide whispers: you are only mind.
Together they begin their mesh,
And wax is all that you can find.
Just wax to shape a twisted creature
That knows no trace of spirit’s flame —
Raw matter for a lesser feature,
A swarm that even flies would shame.
From school onward, with quiet pressure,
They dull the mind, erase the spark,
Then place you into “useful measures”
That turn a man into the dark.
That work is only mass production
Of food for half-formed things below;
Where ugliness breeds more corruption,
And human life is not the goal.
And if you stay within that turning,
You’re lost beyond return or call —
No way back from that inner burning,
No human face, no face at all.
But only communes of the knowing
Can stand against that rising tide,
Where mind and spirit keep on growing —
A fortress no one can divide.
---------------------
You Cannot Be Free Among Slaves
There comes a moment in the cursed one’s mind,
When fate appears with brutal clarity assigned:
He sees the herd is led to slaughter through the gate,
And truth cuts in — too late, too sharp, too straight.
For just a second, he may see
The pen, the end, the destiny.
But soon the vision fades to night —
The mind gives up its trembling fight.
There is a choice — a willing fall,
To walk with cattle past the wall.
The shepherd speaks with sacred tone:
“You are the flock — you are our own.”
He speaks with certainty and ease:
“The herd will crush all enemies.”
And this old method, tried and true,
Has built the camps the world went through.
The Earth becomes a prison wide —
Where cities are just barracks lined.
It’s always been this way, they say,
Just better masked in modern grey.
A land where breathing free is known
Only to fools with minds turned stone.
Where room and power truly lie
For fascist hands that never die.
But leave the devil with his herd —
That is not here the final word.
For you can see it with your eyes:
The crowd itself creates the lies.
It drags the rest into the chain,
And seals their fate with thoughtless strain.
No tyrant needs to lift a hand —
The herd obeys his final plan.
They crush the ones the masters fear,
Erase them quietly, year by year,
Until their blood has washed away
The chaos of this cursed play.
The guilt of slaves is plain and bare —
They’re dead inside, beyond repair.
What’s left is simple: seek the few
Still living, thinking, breaking through.
Not for debate or empty pride,
But for a path where humans hide —
For means, for space, for final stand,
To save what’s left of humankind.
---------------------
The Style of “Bovine-Virus Fascism”
“I conquer cities with a cry,
The idiot’s shriek that tears the sky;
I love my work, let embers fly,
Burn, burn, my guiding star on high!”
— “March”, Aquarium (B. Grebenshchikov / A. Gunitsky, 1981)
The bovine-virus fascist age has hit its wall,
Where compromise means death without appeal.
Even death squads once feared in wartime’s fall
Now seem like flowers next to what is real —
Next to this madness, ritual and decay,
A sabbath built on total mental rust,
Where living things are simply cleared away,
And reason itself is turned to dust.
No sarcasm left is sharp enough to render
This circus of corruption, rot, and lies —
This carnival of crime and moral splendor
In grotesque, laughably primitive disguise.
At least the Black SS once had a design,
A brutal clarity of friend and foe.
But now we drown in filth of dull decline,
Where shame itself is told to bow and go.
There is a “Koch triad” — isolate, infect,
But here the truth gets twisted out of sight.
The head of “health” in some fake architect
Rejects all rules that should be guiding light.
If virus exists, then protocols must stand —
But no: they cheat the crowd, they bend the law,
And guide the herd with injection in hand,
Selling salvation hiding deadly flaw.
A jab approved through endless years ahead —
Yet born from chaos, fraud, and hollow claim.
With madness anything is easily said,
And nonsense dressed up all the same.
They will endure it, bow without a fight,
Say “no” to nothing as the needle nears,
And even smile into the fading light
Of those who orchestrate their final years.
For bovine-virus — pure manufactured dream,
A global fraud constructed out of air.
Without Koch’s proof, the whole thing bursts its seam —
Just state-crafted deception laid out bare.
“A shot against nothing?” — think again, my friends…
There’s far too much that hides within the frame.
But reason fails where panic never ends,
And logic drowns in engineered shame.
The style of shrieking panic, constant roar,
Broadcasting hysteria day and night,
A style that only drunken fools adore —
The lowest minds convinced it must be right.
This is the style of new-fascist command —
A theater of madness on display.
Not even fear — just absurdity at hand,
A Frankenstein of stupidity at play.
As if a circus of the broken and the blind
Has simply parked itself inside our streets.
As if the world’s entire foolish mind
Has gathered here to stage its final feats.
So with this fascism, time has come to see:
One may not die of fear — but shame instead.
If any spark of thought still lives to be,
Yet calmly — the herd comes on ahead.
---------------------
Bovine-Virus Counterattack
A murky haze of lies surrounds,
It swallows every guiding thread;
The road dissolves on shifting grounds
Beneath a mountain-load of dread.
And fools are everywhere you turn —
No need for enemies at all:
Your “neighbor” waits for your return
To push you gently to your fall.
The “neighbor” — doctor, cop, or guide —
A hollow cog within the line,
Just waiting for the perfect time
To watch you break and fall in stride.
That battlefield where you are turned
Into a slave without a name —
Is worse than death; it is what’s earned
As common fate within this game.
There is a method, sharp and plain,
If courage doesn’t fail the chest:
To die — and drag along the chain
The enemy you hate the best.
But this exchange is far too crude:
A clever mind for idiot mass…
How many betrayals brewed
To reach this brutal mental class?
What kind of collapse of sense and thought
Has led to such arithmetic?
It is worse than wars the world has fought,
Worse than fascism’s old mystique.
This is the lowest point below,
No deeper pit exists than this —
A doorway to a man-made woe,
An open maw of hellish abyss.
This is hell — and it must end,
No speeches needed, no delay.
Nothing here can now be mended —
The harvest’s full in Satan’s play.
The stage has slipped into the absurd,
The demon’s theater complete.
This is hell — it must be heard:
The Final Judgment at our feet.
---------------------
Meat
“Like buckets filled to overflowing,
Bare chests drift endlessly by;
And again — hips and backs in motion…
But above them — may it be empty sky —
Not a single face is showing!”
— Sasha Chorny, Meat (1909)
With steady hand, the age of slaughter
Has wiped each face from every crowd.
No pride remains for those of “matter,”
Just bodies mute, anonymous, and bowed.
Where once there was only simple “meat,”
Now skewers turn it on the flame.
The glowing screen repeats its beat —
And drills its poison through the brain.
It does not merely chat and chatter,
Multiplying lie by lie —
It wants to grind all flesh to matter,
Erase the human, let it die.
For new fascism needs its cage,
A world-enclosed abattoir,
A global camp of boundless rage
Where meat is ruled and torn apart.
And once again, as in old ages,
The hangman’s rope will rise anew —
With doctors, parrots in white stages,
The decayed and hollow few.
The judgment will be bright and dire,
A cleansing blaze of burning sun.
And people will destroy the mire
Of what inhumanity has done.
---------------------
Avalanche of Lies
You’ve been deceived — that’s not yet danger,
It may remain a harmless game.
At first the loss feels light and stranger,
A casual trick without much pain.
But loss of trust — the real foundation —
Is what the psychopaths intend.
In their black-and-white creation
It brings the system to its end.
When trust between all people shatters,
You cannot leave your hidden hole;
You hand the rules of human matters
To filth that takes complete control.
And then those rules begin to tremble,
To slide into a genocide —
Where every child and every adult resembles
A mind that lies has pulverized.
Beaten down beyond resisting,
For lies are poison, sharp and slow.
Don’t trust the twisted forms persisting —
They’ll turn this world to hell below.
A slaughterhouse in clean disguise,
With hospital signs at the gate.
The avalanche of growing lies
Has multiplied its darkened weight.
And those who serve it are not driven
By gold or truth or human law —
They serve a darker force, unforgiven,
And feed the lie that came before.
Together all must stand and sever
This rising flood of false command;
Or no rebirth will come — and never
Will freedom rise across the land.
---------------------
Generalized Debilitation of the Slave Population
In a global prison camp the slaves decayed,
From childhood trained in fragmentation and haze.
Simple extermination wars were played —
But newer methods replaced those ways.
For the slaves were made both fragile and dull,
So they slowly destroy themselves alone:
With weak poisons spread in the soil and the gull
Under banners of “struggle” widely sown.
But the central aim was far more grim —
A rising tide of collective decay:
Not to kill a handful, but dull every mind
As fascist design refined its way.
And other toxins were quietly fed
Into food as additives, clean and bright;
So people would eat and sleep instead,
Unaware of the damage under the light.
Medicines too were turned to disguise —
Not to heal, but to mask the fall;
Temporary relief for the weakening eyes,
Preparing the next false medical call.
The mass dulling became the front line base
Of a total war that entered each home;
A cop becomes god in that poisoned place,
A fake doctor commands the dome.
And injections of poison complete the plan —
A system of death spread far and wide:
Where ignorance reigns over every man,
And the living slowly have died.
---------------------
When Illusions Fade, Life Goes With Them
Illusions are leaving —
you wave them goodbye.
New convulsions are breeding
from trouble piled high.
Only suffering’s real
in this cattle-like maze —
so vulgar, so brutal,
a world full of mouths and haze.
The sheep move so clumsy,
like hippos in line.
But fascism is cunning —
it makes “clever” decline.
With injections of poison
it writes off the herd,
this zoo of obedience,
silent, absurd.
The catch is enormous
for those without face.
And doom comes through notices
delivered to place.
Messages: “Game over.
No exit, no gate.”
No escape from the slaughterhouse state.
They’ll lock you in cages
till the end of your days.
This must be shattered
by a solar fire —
a blaze we summon
to burn the empire.
Even if we are lost in it,
burning as one —
let it fall into silence.
Let it be done.
---------------------
Calling Fire Upon Ourselves!!!
Calling fire upon ourselves!!!
Slavery is endless,
and nowhere to flee.
All paths lead to nothing,
no hope left to see.
Methods are exhausted,
all people are split —
only through death itself
we may still exit it.
Through a death that drags down
all the filth in its wake —
all the powers that rule here
for centuries’ sake.
They will vanish in sunlight,
in the Sun’s blazing crown —
the dark Prince of this world
will be burned to the ground.
But not “we allow it” —
we must CALL IT DOWN!
Only through this fire
can the system be torn,
slaves and masters together
in one final fall —
to answer for reason,
to settle it all.
Otherwise the pattern
is brutally clear:
first they kill those who stand up
and refuse to kneel here.
A cruel exchange rate —
two lives for the one:
the artist, the thinker
for a fool with a gun.
Then even the executioners
end up erased —
this is how the whole story
is finally traced.
Do not walk that far path
of decay and disease —
worse than war, worse than plague,
worse than fascist decrees.
It is bottomless ruin,
no lower to fall —
a man-made abyss
that devours us all.
So we CALL FIRE DOWN UPON OURSELVES!!!
Or the rope in the silence
will quietly serve
as the best final outcome
this nightmare deserves —
in the feast of the madmen
who turn humans to herds.
Calling fire upon ourselves!!!
---------------------
The “Wild” Tribe
Independent observers note that so-called “savages” of the Amazon are, in many ways, more rational than so-called “civilized” people. Even a single liar is simply avoided there, effectively erased from the community. The “baranovirus” only reveals the level of so-called civilized society — where almost everyone lies or bends before lies that are loud, crude, and absurd.
A hellish flame
is burning you down.
The “wild” tribe
will lift you from ground.
It tears off your chains,
lets your lungs fill with air,
heals what is breaking,
and leads you somewhere.
Only with those
who are like you inside
do we stay truly alive
and escape from this tide
of herd-rule and noise,
this infernal parade.
It won’t let you go —
you are already bait,
if you cannot reach
those “wild ones” in time.
Not later — but now.
That is the line.
A path to the forests,
away from the cage,
a path to freedom
from cattle-like age.
An island of freedom
may still yet exist
where “wild-born” communities
don’t bow to the fist.
Even your city
may offer a door,
but never without struggle —
firm, harsh, and more.
A commune of people
beyond whip and chain —
an island of freedom
in herds of the plain.
Communal freedom,
here and today,
where people are one
can save us this way.
Only such resistance
to fascist control
is real. But you’re sleeping —
you don’t see at all
the axe overhead,
the closing of time,
no pause, no return,
no second chime.
The hour approaches —
together or death.
It stands at the sunset
of final breath.
You are responsible —
only you decide.
Death and disgrace… or
the door to the other side.
A door into freedom.
And the commune — that door.
---------------------
Global Warming and the Baranovirus
The Sun is shining,
burning rot from the Earth.
No “paradise” coming —
only decay till death.
But the mad ones will never
understand what is true.
They catch fake-virus stories
with a “doctor” or two.
A doctor — a cop —
all mixed into one.
Noise without meaning,
propaganda and scum.
Scum that keeps flowing
from the TV dump stream.
Endless recycling
of manufactured dream.
As long as there’s “money,”
the nonsense will stay.
No expiration date
for this circus play.
Nature’s limit is calling —
it wants pests erased.
The world’s own intelligence
rejects what is base:
fear, betrayal, deception —
it cannot allow.
But propaganda just vomits
“carbon doom” anyhow.
They say it’s all factories,
only mankind’s sin…
as if Earth’s whole breathing
starts and ends there within.
This nonsense is madness —
a volcano alone
erupting would already
exceed the full tone
of a century’s smog
from all factories combined.
As always — just horror tales
for the easily blind.
The Sun simply outshines
all the scripted disease —
and Terra no longer
can carry such fleas.
---------------------
The Knot of Pseudo-Life
The knot of “life” is pulled too tight,
and now the throat gives way.
No truth, no love, no guiding light,
no friend along the way.
Not even a cross remains to bear —
so thought the poet’s mind,
as he surveyed the choking air,
the hell he left behind.
If only youth could clearly see
the stench this lie will breed —
this “virus” dressed in ecstasy
is merely seed of greed.
A pause between two wars it is,
a breath before collapse —
a false serenity that drifts
before the final lapse.
What kind of cross is left to hold
in this barnyard of shame?
Only Everest of lies untold,
and Sodom’s modern name.
They call that Sodom “human grace,”
but strip it to the bone —
and you will see the true face:
fascism overthrown
into each and every home,
through every screen and door,
turning once-proud human form
to madhouse evermore.
A world where man once stood with pride,
yet fears each whip and chain —
he’ll wear a muzzle if required,
and smile through his own pain.
“Merci,” he says, politely bowed,
as if this is the norm.
What kind of cross is left for crowds
that swallow every form
of filth they’re told to take inside,
and bless it with “Amen”?
They’ll take the yoke and call it pride —
then take it once again.
What kind of cross, when life is gone?
Just look around — you’ll find
only absurdity goes on,
a madness of mankind.
Even a drunken horse would laugh
at wisdom left so low.
Sheep should learn from horses’ path —
not crawl where blind ones go.
Sheep in muzzles — shame for dogs —
have traded freedom’s breath
for scraps of lies and cheap slogans
handed to them by death.
And what did they trade it for?
You won’t find words to say.
They were just lied to from a box —
and gave it all away.
Slaves… damn it — that’s the final line.
---------------------
The Knot of Life is Pulled Too Tight
Vanity
—
emptiness
—
vulgarity
—
fear
trouble
—
silence
—
chaos
The knot of “life” is pulled too tight,
and now the throat is lost from sight.
No truth, no love, no friend remains,
and even the cross becomes in vain —
a burden… that no one can bear.
---------------------
They Build the Same Again
Library shelves —
Soviet-era sites.
“Echo Radio” —
voices of parasites.
They build the same thing:
prisons and tombs.
The same old faces,
the same blind rooms.
---------------------
Big Brother
Big cop — the “Uncle Styopa” kind,
or yesterday’s godfather line —
today is “Brother of All Mankind,”
and rules with noise and endless whine.
---------------------
Charter of OJSC “Monastery”
No need for pathos, praise, or tears,
those childish games are gone.
When only decay appears for years —
forget the monastery and its law.
---------------------
THIS WORLD
A slander of stupidity
at its final breath…
not the absence of wisdom —
but dementia made “ethics” instead.
All effort is wasted
among beasts in fine dress:
what matters is dying —
the rest is just mess.
---------------------
Old Shark Horror Tales
Even
a Chukchi
in
a tent
can feel
danger from
a strange
monster
with
marvelous teeth, hard as
cast iron,
with a mouth like
a cupboard.
This
wonder-beast
is as scary
as plague.
And our
sharp awareness
won’t be fooled by
the nonsense
of statistics —
wooden-headed fraud.
And it won’t be calmed
even by some foreign,
slightly parasitic,
yet gentle,
miracle-like
and vaguely Chubais-flavored
Chupa—
Chupa—
Chups.
In short —
away!
away!!
away!!!
---------------------
Art
Art, in essence — a staged display of feeling,
Poems turn rotten when they lose the private seal.
It’s easy walking down the well-worn road of “knowing,”
But hard to reach the edge where other currents start to feel.
That’s not verse, not ecstasy — but summit… and abyss.
No one will hand you sanction there, no entry pass exists.
---------------------
Question
No loneliness, no grief?
No?
And drinking, joy, and sex?
So?
In this upside-down relief
don’t call it true success—
it’s nothing but a bust.
---------------------
Darkness Thickens
Darkness is gathering where worlds collide,
and nowhere at all can you find a place to hide.
But the storm in your soul will not linger for long—
if you’re steady and brave, and you keep moving on.
---------------------
Scientific Approach
Axiom —
theorem —
closed loop,
dogma —
dilemma —
contradictions’ troop.
The harness races on with force,
sweeping everything aside.
But you are safe, of course—
what can happen to a corpse, inside?
---------------------
Horse Eugenics of Human Nature
“Horse freedoms matter most of all,
and cows deserve equality.”
With such selection years will crawl
through neo-fascist biology.
Their harvest from this breeding scheme
is quite a rich and steady haul—
horse-like eugenics of the human dream
already runs out of heads for all…
---------------------
Decadence
Substitution—
fraud—
setup,
betrayal—
soul put up—
roundup.
The “web” is stretched tight and thin,
fools “watch” each other, trapped within…
and not a single chance remains
to break out of these closing chains
of decadence.
---------------------
Psychotrauma
Everyone since childhood
is marked by psychotrauma.
Some then run for comfort
into the arms of a temple.
Another is eased by art—
“tili-tili dough,” it says—
he heals himself in museums,
also a sacred place.
But most poor souls
with a “world-owner” mania
raise the flag of science
inside its… toilet-temple.
---------------------
Zombie Apocalypse
Corpse poison once again
runs bright and bold
through every vein—
the zombies line up,
ready to go,
ready to win
and greet the so-called “great change” again…
It has always been so—no escape
from this mad zombie-age parade.
Only now they strike at themselves,
wearing muzzles instead of flags displayed.
The change is visible—and huge indeed:
all cards are thrown onto hell’s own table.
Losses in open war are not the main need,
but the silent “peaceful” stab is able—
a shot they give each other in this fight
against the “virus” they fear and praise—
will twist the whole course of their fading light
and end their era in final blaze.
All will die quietly, praising care
for their own bodies above all things,
no fire, no shells, no warfare there—
just hybrid war that silence brings.
And what should people do? It’s plain:
don’t wait to be led to the slaughter line.
Stand up in full, break every chain,
and let your strength align.
Unite in communities, break away,
escape from the shackles, the iron cord.
There is no reason now to delay—
that is the only road.
The only way
to survive this war…
and from this day—
it matters no more.
---------------------
Cheerful Extinction
What is this world
from times long gone?
Is it the idol of mind
for savage tribes drawn?
Or just slander of stupidity
at its last breath?
Not absence of wisdom—
but madness held in respect.
All efforts are wasted
among beasts in the dark:
only extinction matters,
the rest is false talk.
The Earth already trembles
from fools gone insane,
and no one escapes here
their shackles and chain.
No Gestapo is needed—
just doctor and cop,
who together, in chorus,
in one brutal drop
with a single rough bark
herd the crowd into pen,
a herd always frantic,
afraid once again.
Where would revolt go then?
Or again—same refrain:
not absence of wisdom,
but madness as reign.
All efforts are wasted
among beasts in the dark:
only extinction matters,
the rest is false talk.
And since revolt is impossible,
they start to invoke
the Sun that will wipe out
this enslaved broken folk—
not caring if remnants of humans remain,
or demons who ruled here through cruelty and pain,
since long ago holding the world in their chain—
let judgment arrive as a terrible flame.
Not absence of wisdom—
but madness held high.
All efforts are wasted
as beasts multiply.
So only one path now is left to be tried:
to save this whole Earth from the rot at its side.
We are just refuse that must be swept clean—
slaves, masters, and jailers alike in this scene.
The Sun will come help the exhausted old Earth.
In final appeal, we call to its worth—
better to burn, and burn with some sense,
than dangle in shame through a lifetime of fence.
From human infection, from masters and hell,
we save this Earth by letting them fail—
through death, through the necessary end of the spell.
Or madness will reign.
---------------------
Digestive, or Fresh Lamb Shashlik
A pack of greedy jackals
has gnawed a country dry.
More ruin still will follow—
the road down is not shy.
For it is never enough—
they want to devour it all.
Nothing remains for chewing,
their hunger starts to fall.
A herd, though locked in apartments,
is scattered and out of hand—
so they must design a system,
a global command:
a silent shared toilet space
where injections will decide,
and the plan is rather clever—
almost a joke inside:
a terrible “virus” that harvests
all fools in a line.
They will beg for it gladly,
and queue up just fine.
In that restroom they’re building
with a red-cross sign,
everything will be managed—
both slaughter and “fine.”
How many they choose to waste,
how many to feed and use…
the fools all repeat in chorus:
“we are one unified truth.”
And what can the sane ones do
in this era of filth and noise?
Only flee from the madmen
and their herd-like ploys.
Build, grain by grain, new communes—
that is the only way.
No time left for hesitation—
there is only today:
a path out of the restroom
of death and decay,
rebirth of a people
who refuse to obey.
---------------------
In the Terrible Hell of Genocide
In the terrible hell of genocide
the peaceful human dies away.
He does not dream of garden light—
he thinks he’s slave for every day.
The darkness thickens as before—
it’s frightening now to stay alive.
Yet still a place for hope remains:
the non-human can be deprived.
Yet still a place for hope remains:
the non-human can be deprived.
We’ll spread our wings above the dust,
and plant a Garden on this land.
A program—strength of human trust—
will multiply our effort’s hand.
A program—strength of human trust—
will multiply our effort’s hand.
We’ll restore the Earth once more,
and save what resources remain.
Our power only sleeps inside—
genocide has left its stain.
A law of fair exchange we’ll build,
and set it firm, for all to see.
From economic ruin we’ll
rebirth a living economy.
From economic ruin we’ll
rebirth a living economy.
We’ll spread our wings above the dust,
and plant a Garden on this land.
A program—strength of human trust—
will multiply our effort’s hand.
A program—strength of human trust—
will multiply our effort’s hand.
All people will be free at last—
each one a sovereign in name.
The enterprises will prosper,
and rural decay will fade in shame.
A base income for all will stand—
below it none will ever fall.
And peace will come across the land,
and fascist power will lose it all.
And peace will come across the land,
and fascist power will lose it all.
We’ll spread our wings above the dust,
and plant a Garden on this land.
A program—strength of human trust—
will multiply our effort’s hand.
A program—strength of human trust—
will multiply our effort’s hand.
---------------------
Exchange Without Money
Exchange without money — that law
that one day will rule upon the Earth.
Without it, all will be driven off
from life itself — swallowed by dearth.
By dearth of fascist choking dark,
that throws its yoke on human will.
And money — always — leaves its mark,
the finest tool to keep us still.
Yet it is not real wealth, but dust,
mere paper husks of empty claim.
They only serve a binding trust
that stretches slavery’s long chain.
The road to freedom is not fast,
and many trials stand in its way.
A system built to help us pass
will keep the human world from decay.
You must step in among the few
who save the world through honest toil.
Bring closer what we all must do —
success will rise from living soil.
---------------------
Pseudolife
The dragging sludge of pseudolife
has sunk like a needle in the core.
This isn’t life — just crawling strife,
like slugs in filth upon a sewered floor.
Not love, but rot of inner shame,
not friendship — only hollow disgrace.
A bow to ego’s twisted claim,
where spirit dies and mind loses its place.
In this filthy, suffocating mess
there is no room for human kind.
No space for grief, no personal distress —
just hell where dull-witted devils grind.
Nothing can be born here anew,
nothing can rise from such decay.
Only the inhuman breaks through —
a mix of beasts and demons at play.
This rotten world must be undone,
this choking swamp of foul design.
Or you will turn, when all is done,
into the same — a servant of the swine.
---------------------
Nonsense
Around us — nothing but pure nonsense,
the world has long since lost its mind.
Only cheap and vulgar presence
makes even sarcasm feel confined.
“Light” is brought by Googlation,
censor, judge, and executioner too.
Gone are all illumination —
the sharp-eyed, thinking, lucid few.
In every soul there’s a dented hollow,
where only darkness claims its throne.
And final victory we must swallow —
the dark has claimed the world alone.
All that’s left is to shatter this decay,
this hellish, rotten, hollow sphere.
Or emptiness will have its way
and keep its endless banquet here.
---------------------
Agitation
No need to worry — you are already dead:
this slow decay has long been all we’ve known.
The air is stale, the soul has turned to lead,
you vanished here long ago — and alone.
No need to bear this world’s foul stench and lie,
no need to fear it or obey its tone.
Only the vile and twisted thrive nearby —
the light of reason here has long been gone.
If you are dead already, nothing’s taken,
no loss can reach you, swift and light you stand.
Only through struggle can you be awakened,
and earn the cleansing that makes you unspanned.
Clean from the filth that centuries have layered,
the slave-born grime that crushes mind and flame.
All this must fall by your own hand unfaltered —
it will not drop away, nor leave the same.
And you will not fear smashing this confusion,
or breaking slavery’s final iron seal.
With you will fall this inhuman delusion —
those who once chose to kill all that is real.
---------------------
No Need
No need to beg for Nature’s saving hand,
no need to hymn the gods above the skies.
When we are all but broken shapes of man,
no voice of ours will ever reach the wise.
No need to think our fault is small or slight,
no need to whine about a cursed fate.
We cannot rise within this twisted night
that screams of slaves who came too late.
No need to hope for anything at all,
no spark of reason left in what we are.
When filth of inhumanity does fall,
it makes us beasts, degraded and afar.
No fate remains for spirit’s resurrection,
no spark of God within us can remain.
When all is sold to rot and disconnection,
the world itself becomes a ruined chain.
Only swift destruction waits in store:
the Sun will burn — no refuge will remain.
The price of all this planet’s inner gore,
the debt for turning human into strain.
---------------------
In Neat Rows to the Slaughter
In orderly rows they march away,
from cradle’s cry to final breath,
like withered fruit that sways and frays
within the hellish wheel of death.
Fools on parade in a world gone blind,
through lands where reason has decayed.
They empty out the human mind,
and hollow every town and trade.
Each is given their daily feed —
a dummy, yogurt, numbered cell,
according to status, age, and creed,
signed off in cheerful, modern hell.
And what comes after? None will ask.
Just more delight, just more desire.
Pleasure becomes the only task —
the rest is thrown into the fire.
It has always been thus — no escape
from this road of servitude and chains.
Now only the formation takes new shape,
refined for newer, tighter aims.
They “heal” each other, or else they break
those who refuse the blind decree.
The ranks close tight for system’s sake,
all locked into conformity.
This ordered line will sweep away
all who refuse to march in step.
It drags them off without delay
toward slaughter’s final, silent depth.
No longer rows, but one great line —
the whole world forged into a pen.
The world now marches, disciplined,
to tunes of unseen governing men.
And all is driven toward the grind
of sacrifice for false, dark gods.
What little life is left behind
is harvested by iron odds.
So what remains for those alive
inside this madhouse built of fear?
Return to roots — to truly survive —
the path is simple, sharp and clear:
The living go to the living kind,
to human communes, whole and free.
We leave the dull and dead behind
to their obedient fantasy.
Freedom in common, here and now,
where unity is not a lie —
this is the only way somehow
that we might live, and not just die.
---------------------
The Terrible Tale of Cheburashka
Once lived Cheburashka,
he set out to build his home.
But something went abysmally wrong —
and built instead was Sodom.
That Cheburashka —
the Soviet man of old.
From that small mistake alone
the whole world lost its hold.
The house was broken,
the crocodile is gone,
all order left unspoken,
and everyone lies worn.
And just to find some strength again,
to feed the fading fire,
a new grotesque was made for men —
the fool curing the fool’s desire.
The fool now heals and teaches all
how not to fall apart,
from waves of “viruses” that call —
a plague upon the heart.
And all resources flow that way,
to build a brand new pen:
a new enclosure built from clay
for broken, blinded men.
They build the same old structures still —
tombs, prisons, sealed decay.
The same old faces, dull and ill,
who cannot see their way.
Again the screws are tightened tight,
the fools police the fools.
And not a single path in sight
leads out of these dark rules.
No chance remains to break the chain
of this descending age —
no exit from this slow disdain,
this structured, rotting cage.
---------------------
Forward, Slavic People!
The vile goblins rule over us here,
through lies and deceit they grind down the brave.
This hell has been growing for century’s smear —
a monstrous enslavement of half-human knaves.
Governments bought by corruption and gold,
banks in the grip of the same rotten hand.
And medicine now wears a uniform cold —
like SS it marches across every land.
No cannons or tanks are needed today —
they strike with injections of poisoned design.
They come in disguise and silently slay,
turning life into a tightening line.
To battle this filth —
this stench and this guilt —
go forward and stand,
Slavic land!
The days have now come when decay has descended
to depths never seen in the course of all time.
Unthinkable scales of destruction have blended
each man against system in brutal design.
And only by standing together as one
can we push back the beasts in their fascist parade.
Find comrades to stand with, and when that is done
your strength will be doubled, your purpose well-made.
We must build self-reliant and living communities —
the remnant of minds that refuse to submit.
For not only strength, but new human continuities
will rise from the unions that knowledge will knit.
These simple ideas are rooted in spirit alone —
there lies the salvation from slavery’s chain.
“Material life” is a rumour, a tone —
we rise in the spirit, the monsters will wane.
But while we are here, we must stand and resist —
for only through struggle the soul is preserved.
No room for fear — only dignity exists.
And thus shall the slave’s final ending be served.
---------------------
Rise, Last Remnants of Reason!
Rise up, you modest spark of mind
that’s dying on this Earth below.
A phantom war has gripped mankind —
and all will vanish in its glow,
unless the last remaining reason
pushes back the rising storm.
Without delay, without hesitation,
take up the axe in final form.
Let every free and thinking nation
hold that axe as one united will.
Then comes our final reckoning station —
but first we must the pressure still
of fascist filth and degradation
that presses in on every side.
No help will come from hesitation,
no rescue born of fear or pride.
There will be no salvation given
unless we build it here and now.
Not miracle from distant heaven —
but unity is weapon now.
A noble commune, strong and grounded,
shall rise like walls against the night.
And all the monstrous force unbounded
will scatter under gathered light.
This hybrid war of hidden motion,
where enemies are ghost and screen,
is most disgraceful in its notion —
it enters homes unseen, obscene.
A war to erase all that’s living,
to crush all freedom into dust.
A war against the mind forgiving,
a war that feeds on fear and trust.
And only then will hope be dawning,
when we at last unite as one:
for unity is weapon forming —
and only there is battle won.
They poison us with aerosol chains,
with “five G” webs of unseen wire.
The strong collapse beneath these strains,
all veiled beneath a web of liar’s fire.
A fake pandemic, mass illusion —
a plague designed for foolish minds,
to finish thought in slow profusion,
and leave no reason left behind.
Then comes the needle, cold and final,
for “nothing” cures the living dead.
Can you not hear the march of viral
death moving closer overhead?
It takes what’s dear, what life has given,
what once was meaning, soul, and breath.
No greater enemy was driven
than this — beyond even judgment’s death.
So rise, you land without a master,
rise for your final stand and cry —
against this monstrous, vile disaster,
this demon host that passes by.
---------------------
Communes of the Remnants of Reason
Communes of those last remnants of mind —
this is the only road to be free.
They must be built without delay in kind,
for here alone the half-dead can be.
To be alive means to be sovereign,
free under Nature’s own decree.
This is the only law not forged in chains,
the only truth that cannot flee.
There all will be simple, honest, and clear —
no money, no whip, no command from above.
Nature provides without price or fear,
while money enslaves what should be love.
Such communes are just exchange made right:
you take no less than what you give.
Paper money is hollow spite
for stolen strength from those who live.
No slavery to demonic regimes —
a union where freedom is core.
No force, no artificial schemes,
but unity, creation, and more.
The rising peoples of Earth shall stand,
and leave the cesspool, rise from the mud.
The parasite scourge will be swept from the land —
no refuge remains for their flood.
That parasite devouring all life,
a walking asylum, cosmic disease.
We will live to see the end of that strife —
their judgment will fall with ruthless ease.
No gag can silence a slave-born voice,
no yoke can bind the sovereign soul.
The free will always find their choice —
for freedom runs through living blood as whole.
So rise, O Slavic and German kind,
amid the final feast of decay.
Together, the axis of humankind —
to lead the world out of its grave.
---------------------
Concentration-Camp Monastery Type
The “bovanovirus” failed Koch’s triad test —
and thus is nothing but a tool of lies,
a blunt invention used to dress
old fascist schemes in modern guise.
The whole world has been turned to pen,
a cattle yard without an end.
Yet looks like a monastery then —
with strict obedience to defend.
Instead of robes, a muzzle worn;
instead of rule, a written chain.
The abbot now is doctor-born —
a loudmouthed fraud with hollow brain.
Instead of Bible, circular
from “health authority” decree.
And at the gate a barrier
to block all slaves from being free.
No words are needed, no delay,
no patient slave-like tolerance.
When madness rules the world today,
no monastery deserves obedience.
False science now is faith alone —
without proof it has no ground.
Just darkness, ignorance, overthrown,
with “assertion” as its crown.
No need to prove — just claim, declare:
invent a virus out of air.
The mindless world will not compare,
it only eats and does not care.
So all we do is just affirm —
and truth itself will never firm.
“Bovanovirus” is pure deceit,
a global fraud of engineered lies.
There is nothing in it to meet —
no Koch’s triad to verify.
Only the lies of fascist hands,
of generals in mental war,
a system built on shifting sands —
a camp disguised as something more.
This monastery, false and cold,
is sanctified by fascist creed,
its final dream is plainly told —
a Nazi camp for every breed.
The flock is trained to trust the fraud,
to swallow every claimed “science” word,
to be distracted, lulled, ignored —
then quietly erased unheard.
So what remains in such a time?
No speeches left, no empty sound.
The only path that stays sublime —
is finding exit underground.
Communes of minds that still remain —
the only way out of this hell.
A modern Exodus through pain,
a truth no scripture fails to tell.
Across the sea of madness deep,
we swim, we crawl, we push ahead —
until at last we reach the steep
and climb to freedom from the dead.
---------------------
The Blue and the Foolish
Even the screens here glow in blue —
the filth is spread by rotten hands.
All sacred values are subdue,
and fascist evil now commands.
A new whip called “political care”
is crushing minds and breaking will.
To be “normal” is no longer fair —
only Sodom remains, standing still.
We mourn the loss of honor and grace,
we long for a life once meant for man.
But if you look truth in the face,
no good news comes from this madhouse span.
No news remains — the zombie screen
delivers lies in endless stream.
This world is rotten, dead, obscene —
each so-called “nation” is a dream.
Not nations now, but broken remains
of old enclosures built to hold the slaves.
Yet modern slaves accept the chains
of lies that lead them to their graves.
Now killing slaves through “false disease”
has become the single global trade.
It swallows all with ease,
while care is just a mask displayed.
For fascism calls itself the healer,
a mentor, doctor, guiding hand.
In this madhouse there is no clearer
theme than saving beasts across the land.
And only fools will still believe
what every screen and slogan says.
The fascist mind will still conceive
new sicknesses in endless ways.
So this world dies from “simple colds” —
a nightmare no one should believe.
Each third man now betrays and folds,
a Judas helping darkness weave.
For if you stop resisting lies,
and yield to death, control, and fear,
you strengthen all that truth denies —
and rot is all that brings you near.
And soon that rot will rise like tide,
devouring hell until all ends.
Then man becomes a jackal’s guide —
a beast in chains that never bends.
---------------------
The Path
Futility
; meaninglessness
; vulgar decay
; fear
misfortune
; silence
; chaos and sway.
What now remains is empty space —
hands fall down in silent strain.
Yet not by fate, nor simple grace —
they are broken… out of disdain.
And there is only one true way,
one single act that still remains:
to trick the cruel fate that sways
and push ahead through all its chains.
But foul deception wraps you tight,
a choking fog of endless lies.
The path is lost, erased from sight
beneath a heap of false replies.
And now the world moves onward, blind,
into a void without a name.
Its compass shattered, left behind,
and herds of sheep assume the frame.
They drag the human stream along
into a witches’ Sabbath night —
then onward to the slaughter’s song,
beyond all reason, hope, or light.
The sheep are dead in mind and soul,
and man himself is fading fast.
There is no choice, no higher goal —
only one act that must be cast:
Destroy this Sodom, foul and vile,
this sewer of corruption deep.
And only then, after exile,
Styx will its final silence keep.
And Earth will rise, renewed again,
sweeping all filth into the void.
And then will come, through all this pain,
a child of reason — unalloyed.
---------------------
Ñèëà ñëîâà "íåò" —
Òàê îòðèíåøü Áðåä.
Ïðîáóæäåíüå âñëåä.
Ýòî Çëó îòâåò.
---------------------
Èñòÿçàíèå ïñåâäîæèçíüþ
Ãåìîððîé óáîãîé æèçÄíè,
Ãäå â îñíîâå Ëîæü è Ñòðàõ —
Ñëîâíî áû ïîä ñîëüþ ñëèçíè.
Ñûïëåò ÿä íà íèõ àëëàõ.
Îí ðîãàòûé. Ðåíåãàòû
Õîëóéêàìè — ïñåâäî-ñòðàí
"Óïðàâèòåëè". Ðàñïëàòû
Çà ïðîäàæíîñòü è îáìàí
Íå áûâàåò — ÷åðíü ëàæàåò,
Ñíîâà âåðÿ — òàê âñåãäà.
Íûíå Ðàçóì äîáèâàåò
Ñàòàíà — êðóãîì ñòàäà.
Åäèíèöû ÷åëîâåêîâ
Òüìó íå ìîãóò îñâåòèòü.
Âåê ïîñëåäíèé. È íàä âåêîì
Ïðèãîâîð îäèí — ÄÎãíèòü:
Äóõ â ñòàäàõ âåçäå èçáûòü.
Äàëüøå ëàÿòü, õðþêàòü, âûòü:
Íàçîâóò, êàê ïðåæäå, "æèòü".
×åëîâåêó æ â Òüìå íå áûòü.
---------------------
Torture of a Pseudo-Life
A wretched hemorrhoid of pseudo-life,
where Lie and Fear sustain the strife;
like slugs beneath a salted seam,
and poison falls from Allah’s scheme.
He is horned. Renegades in shame
serve as managers of the fake-name game;
no reckoning for sold-out guise,
the crowd keeps falling for the same disguise.
Only a few can pierce the coming dark,
the rest have lost the living inner spark;
this final age delivers verdict: rot,
above the age, the only law is rot.
Spirit in herds is slowly torn away,
they bark and grunt and howl and sway;
they call it life, forever named,
yet human soul in darkness is blamed.
---------------------
Heavy Thoughts
Heavy thoughts have had their fill,
and media lies are worse and still;
dive headfirst into drink and haze?
You won’t remain yourself that way.
Better to burn it into art,
to ease the weight inside the heart;
to rot in silence, numb and blind,
is to serve the fooling mind.
Of global nonsense, cruel and wide,
of “yes” that swallows truth and pride;
that bends the Spirit, twists it wrong—
a “dual” world of spite and con.
---------------------
World Order of Brutality
This brutal world of force and fraud,
the fool will kneel and call it god;
for those whose minds are cracked and sore,
it’s “cry or howl” — and nothing more.
Why so? Because the soul is bruised,
from childhood bent, misused, confused;
no unity can rise from dust—
so cycles of decay adjust.
Degradation at its peak,
whole peoples vanish, weak and bleak;
this system spreads across the globe—
a choking, cold, invisible robe.
Plagues and wars reveal its face,
a slave-built world of fallen grace;
madness climbs the chart so high,
and lies drift through the air like sky.
They keep the crowd in media chains,
while cruelty quietly remains;
not enough who stand to fight—
so darkness calls itself “the light.”
No turning back, the line is crossed,
the human compass bent and lost;
a “sixth ward” world begins to form,
a red-cross flag in psychic storm.
A digital enclosure grows,
a modern cage the whole world knows;
no place for minds deemed weak or small—
yet listen closely through it all:
A larger change is drawing near,
a planetary break appears;
it may destroy, it may release—
for some, destruction is their peace.
The lost are taken by their guide,
but Hell is already inside;
from hell to hell the cycle turns,
for those who trade in lies and burns.
Yet for the rare who still can feel,
a higher task begins to heal;
to live inside this choking night—
and still align toward inner light.
Beyond the spheres of earthly chain
lies something vast, though hard to gain;
but try to sense its silent call—
a faint resonance through all.
For resonance becomes the way;
though strength is small, though knowledge frays,
alchemy stirs in effort deep—
and something new begins to seep.
---------------------
Crossroads of Worlds
At the crossroads of worlds —
we broke what was whole, turned reason to splinters and smoke,
and planted a forest of crosses in rows,
while horned-eyed demons collected their quota and chose.
Foundations are shattered, the bedrock is gone,
your shelter is taken, you stand there alone;
and herds of the sheep-minded, asses in throng,
are led through the iron of “doctors” gone wrong
and dogs of enforcement that howl as they go
into nightmare-realms where the last feasts glow.
A dense cloak of madness has fallen like snow
on the cattle of bondage, on minds lying low;
none here are well — yet the sickness is not
from “viruses” dreamed up and sold as a plot,
but words like a poison poured into the mind,
that hollowed the human and left it blind.
Nature will answer — and answer in flame;
no longer “people,” just harvest for pain;
a meal on the altar of infernal domains,
fit only for purging through purifying chains.
---------------------
Chance
We’ve been granted the lottery’s chance,
all smug and sedated in calm compliance;
“TeFAL” thinks right here in our place —
and we call that comfort… call it reliance.
And for this we inherit decay,
where ruin and war are now “history lessons”;
the slaughter has shifted its subtle display —
a quiet injection… and all end in silence.
Yet we insist fascism’s not in our house,
still docile, still fed, still pretending it’s normal;
they feed us, they “heal us,” they silence the doubts —
only fools shout about what is abnormal.
So we’ll keep on consuming, keep chewing it all,
while waiting for “luck” to improve our existence;
only film characters ever will fall —
in our warm, rotten world of resistance-less distance.
---------------------
Question
No sorrow, no loneliness, no bitter thread?
No thrill of the drink, no lust in bed?
In this twisted world it’s all just noise—
pure empty babble from foolish voices said.
It gives no ground where a man can stand,
no use for minds inside this land;
only comfort for talking asses proud,
so self-important, loud, and grand.
Loneliness, sorrow, misfortune too—
are gifts in disguise, though they break you in two;
still better this way, for the nets are cast
to catch the talking asses at last.
For asses have drunk away what was mind,
eaten and wasted the memory of kind;
like a plague on the Earth they quietly spread,
and Earth itself profits from what lies ahead.
The catch goes on by the laws of rot,
that rule the asses a hell of a lot;
no place remains for the mind to grow—
only digestion is left to show.
---------------------
Games are over
Games are over—now comes pain,
Mind-torture buried under strain,
beneath “care” and false sustain,
a field of idiots, dull domain,
not a shred of chance remains,
no spark of mind inside the brain,
the game is over—only pain.
---------------------
Literary Talents
Literary talents on display,
in slick propaganda’s hire and pay;
the years go by — a hollow sound,
a flash, a puff that hits the ground.
What once was skill now fades to dust,
and reason buckles under trust;
a clever show, a vacant spark—
and intellect just slips to dark.
---------------------
Mystery of the Way Away
We labor, fed by daily bread,
in noise and fear and fog instead;
they say: “In filth you’ll find your bliss,”
and generations swallow this.
This tune has played for ages long,
its hollow pipe, its broken song;
and now it leads the herd below,
where degradation tends to grow.
The fool believes again, again,
and bends his back in servile strain;
look closer—most are cattle here,
a planned disposal draws near.
They showed us plague and endless war,
and pushed the world down to the floor;
through betrayal, fear, and lies,
obedience is what survives.
The world becomes a word for rot,
where only few resist the lot;
just handfuls left who seek the cause,
and exits from infernal laws.
For sloth and sorrow cut them down,
while idiots still wear the crown;
the future thick with venom grows—
what lies ahead, no comfort knows.
Yet break your own imposed refrain:
“I go away” — repeat again;
the strongest banner ever flown
is leaving what destroys your own.
Go forth, proclaim, and search the way,
to save your soul from Hell’s decay;
beyond all spheres that bind and cage
lies source of joy beyond the age.
Not matter—but a subtler form,
a light that lives beyond the storm;
the path begins with “leave behind,”
and wakes the eye within the mind.
It starts when you say “no” to night—
and Spirit breaks through shadowed light.
---------------------
Happy New Sheeplevirus Year...
Another year of madness
Now is rolling in.
So brace yourselves, you cattle —
Bare your flesh and skin:
Your untouched veins surrender,
Or your bloated rear —
The needle leads you onward
To genocide and fear.
That poison shot will finish
Masked and broken slaves.
They’ll perish slow and silent,
Like vermin in their graves.
So cheers to the New Year,
And the fake plague spreading near!
For where the virus enters,
Death itself draws clear.
---------------------
Creativity
The herd of shallow women —
Just monkeys, cold and vain.
They will not spare your spirit,
Nor understand your pain.
So bury yourself in books now,
Yet know — no shelter’s there.
The world is built on falsehood,
Deception everywhere.
Then send it all to hellfire,
But keep your sacred oath:
Create while still you’re breathing,
Defy decay and sloth.
For even in “great wisdom”
Old lies still strike their pose —
The same as childish fairy tales
Of Santa Claus and snow.
---------------------
Beloved
You are the light within my eyes,
The queen of sweetest dreams,
The star that haunts my sleepless nights —
...and cancer to my brain, it seems.
---------------------
Love Today
Here falsehood reigns already
From the very first embrace,
And you will never bring back
That trembling love’s old grace.
The kind untouched by bargaining,
By flattery and deceit,
Where two souls wandered drunken —
Simply because they’d meet.
---------------------
About Love
A romantic haze
Has wrapped me deep inside,
Seducing every heartbeat,
Pulling like the tide.
And honestly, the damn collapse
Of this whole rotting sphere
Can go straight down to hell itself —
I simply do not care.
---------------------
Only the Dead Are Truly Loved
The dead are the only ones loved with sincerity —
The living are far too hard to embrace.
The dead look more fitting for “purity,”
And they do not disturb our comfortable pace.
This world of the “living” is built upon clashes,
On forgetting that death is no fixed decree.
And so much living ballast and spiritual ashes
Will soon make the earth itself tremble beneath.
The dead are much easier to cherish and praise —
They never embarrass, accuse, or offend.
No one will dare to condemn them for this;
Death is their shield in the bitter end.
Far harder it is with the living instead.
To love them demands that we suffer and give,
Create and feel deeply — for love without that
Is merely addiction pretending to live.
So all that remains is a dark kind of laughter:
Here every second soul worships the grave.
But still we’ll keep creating and standing,
As long as we still have the strength to be brave.
---------------------
Workaholia
Far better to perish
A drunk or a junkie,
Than live as a work-slave,
A grandiose monkey.
That punishing fever,
That work-driven rage,
Will slaughter the fragments
Of art on your page.
The cult of production,
Relentless and vast,
Devours the spirit
Until nothing lasts.
---------------------
Their Own Programming
Kindergarten
;
school
;
some “prestigious” degree.
And all around you — the Soviet machinery.
Grandma and Grandpa,
your father and mother —
Each damned fool repeating
their program to another.
---------------------
Run from Brutal Computer Games
“Fight?!” — a doubtful answer,
A trap that drags you deeper.
“Run!” — now that’s the wiser path,
The stronger and the clearer.
And while escaping, think ahead:
Where can you disappear,
To rest your soul and heal yourself,
Far from the madness here.
Èãîðü Âûõîâàíåö, ñòèõè 21001-21500
© Copyright: Èãîðü Âûõîâàíåö, 2026
Ñâèäåòåëüñòâî î ïóáëèêàöèè ¹226052501022
Ñâèäåòåëüñòâî î ïóáëèêàöèè ¹226052501022
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