27 poems

Little Bird

A tiny little birdie
Had built herself a nest
Beneath the concrete rooftop
Where gray apartments rest.

She munched on popcorn happily,
Drank “Holy Spring” with pride,
And never even noticed
What slowly grew inside.

Her thoughts became so weightless,
So vacant and absurd —
Until her brains turned truly…
Exactly like a bird’s.



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“Paradise Garden”

What do you wait for?
What do you seek?
Where will you wander,
What havoc wreak?

All of it’s futile —
And tell me then,
Why must we suffer
Inside this flesh?

For hell surrounds us,
No joke, no lie:
A madhouse kingdom,
A foul mankind.

Sodom in ruins,
The chained insane,
The weak and broken
In fear and shame.

Perhaps one day
They’ll burn this hell,
And paradise gardens
Will rise as well.

But not for us —
We’re waste and stain.
A world made spotless,
Without mankind’s plague.



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Total Madness

I hate the madness driving
The herd straight to the grave,
Marching one behind another,
Bent and trained like slaves.

The remnants of their honor gone,
Their reason torn apart,
They walk toward the abyss itself
For fascists’ twisted art.

Soon it will be your turn too:
The false-vaccine’s cold dart
Will quietly erase you —
A needle through the heart.

Such things are born where freedom’s light
Has long been crucified,
Where mind and shame have both been lost,
And madness rules with pride.



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Hippos on Autopilot

Bloated stupid hippos, dull and overfed,
Wading through the swamp where the fake plague spread —
In this stinking wasteland, hell’s last vomit pit,
Marching to the slaughter, blind and proud of it.

Busy as always with breeding, food, and grind,
Never stopping once to use a waking mind.
Working for “the bossman,” honored chains they tote,
Though to him they’re nothing but digits in a slot.

That slot machine runs on propaganda, fraud, and lies,
On total deception where slow genocide resides.
And with cheerful slogans, smiles, and empty praise,
It will wipe them out completely in this poisoned haze.



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Marching with the Idiots

Everything here is rotten with falsehood,
No road leads to freedom that’s real.
So smile with a plastic expression,
And march with the idiots in heel-to-heel.

March with them straight into hellfire,
The hell that dark powers design.
And somewhere along the procession
They’ll twist your own soul and mind.

Till you too become nearly mindless,
A shadow, obedient and still.
For love here is only a poison,
A trap for the flesh and the will.

A game for the ego and body,
Raw fuel for the graveyard’s demand,
A method to drain the last sparks of life
From the heart and the spirit of man.

And friendship? Impossible also —
Slaves cannot truly unite.
In a world so pathetic and hollow,
One grieves only alone through the night.

It’s hard to imagine corruption
More shameful, degraded, or grim.
Only death seems escape from this prison —
This whole festering horror: burn it.



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The Filth of the Inhuman

A vile inhuman infestation
Has wandered here upon the Earth.
Cast down straight out of hell itself,
It came to crush us from our birth.

By lies and swords it rules the masses,
Turning each child into a slave.
And those once captured by its system
Will never know escape or grace.

The savage lies will keep on screaming,
Driving mankind into the grave.
The murder of the soul and reason,
Of honor and the bright and brave,

Will only spread. And all around us
A deeper Sodom will arise.
Unless this filth is finally shattered,
Though sacrifice may be the price.

For otherwise the plague will multiply
Its nightmares, misery, and dread,
Until the Earth becomes one prison,
A single camp of fear and death.

Then fascism will reign unchallenged,
Its chains wrapped tight on every throat,
And man reduced to cattle fitted
With digital restraints and yokes.



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Solitude

You must escape the coldness
Of friendship and romance.
They cannot feed the hunger
The spirit still demands.

They cannot burn the sorrow
That settles deep inside.
Only solitude remains now —
The burden of the mind.

For there are born the visions,
The prophecies that call.
There you become both certain
And unafraid of all.

And this disgusting little world
Turns nightmare-like and thin.
While joyful work in harmony
Begins to rise within.

For there, perhaps, lie answers
To problems dark and real.
And there alone salvation waits
From madness none can heal.



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Mark of the Slave

“The city is a blank sheet
on which any hieroglyph may be written.”
— Mao Zedong


Once only cities bore that fate —
But now the plague-god changed the role:
A muzzle stamped upon the face,
The branded mark of the controlled.

And next will come the parasite collar,
Fastened tightly round the neck.
Then toilets worn upon the forehead
As “progress” for the intellect.

A clean excision of all reason —
Such is the future drawing near
In this false world where genocide
Has been enthroned through lies and fear.

And poison shots will soon be praised
As perfect cures for common colds.
No one reads between the lines now —
They know only the alphabet told.

Such stunning dullness serves quite well
For slaughtering nations like fleas,
And for the vast digital prison
That ends this age of mad disease.



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Super-Slaves

Stupid lies, dictatorship, endless coercion —
The rotten foundations of this decaying age.
The loss of honor, spirit, and reason’s bright crown,
And fresh chains forged for a technocratic cage.

Disgrace has nearly reached its final horizon —
The massacres of old fascism now seem tame.
Masked cattle, faceless creatures without identity,
Driven to slaughter in new fascism’s name.

No longer cannons, pistols, or bombs
Are used to destroy the condemned and weak.
Now pure insanity ravages the nations;
Wars are waged with syringes and deceit.

And the slave-herd stays obedient as always —
Even sea slugs seem sharper and less resigned.
This mad world someday will be swept into nothingness;
Only death suits the super-slaves of mankind.



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The Boor Will Drive You to the Grave

Long ago the vulgar boor
Replaced the people of the mind.
And now the price for such surrender
Will bury all of humankind.

It’s not that every wretched boor
Is driven purely by spite or hate,
But they despise the rare and different —
The ones who choose a separate way.

As biomass the boor is monstrous:
No mighty force is even required.
By sheer dumb numbers they can crush
The few whose souls still burn with fire.

And now these boors themselves are slaves
Of sheeplevirus destiny.
While thinking people have grown weakened,
There’s little chance of victory.

The boor will drag mankind to hell.
No bullet to the forehead’s needed —
Just poison in a silent shot,
Then half a year… and you are finished.



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Degeneration

Degeneration’s dreadful sentence,
The root of every coming curse,
Has struck all those who sold their spirit
And made their inner darkness worse.

For when the ego and the body
Become the only gods you serve,
Then filthy powers seize upon you,
And drag your soul into the dirt.

And when the heart is left abandoned,
The mind itself begins to rot.
A deadly lie will find its entrance
Into the fool who questions not.

Great lies have always ruled with cunning —
Genocide sits crowned above.
It spares no creatures stripped of honor;
They’re turned to brainless herds and mud.

So those who still possess a heartbeat
Must call consuming fire near.
Perhaps to die together now
Is all that truly matters here.



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Breeding in Captivity

Captivity is captivity —
A slave you are for life.
So don’t extend that prison
Into the act called “wife.”

Enough of mass production
Of mindless human stock.
The beastly herd keeps winning —
That’s slaves’ appointed lot.

So stop this endless effort
To manufacture fools anew:
They’ll never stand without it —
Digital chains will do.

Only the dim and broken
Accept those chains with ease.
Don’t turn them into timber —
It’s better not to be.

But not a quiet dying,
A gift for those who hate.
We answer rot with fire —
And blast the broken state.



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Imbalances of Non-Being

In mad distortions of existence
No one asks the real thing anymore:
Why was this world created,
And who am I it’s for?

Now only swollen appetites
Are honored and obeyed.
And you become just fodder
For beasts that fatten and trade.

For there is measure to all becoming —
And you will pay that price.
The herd of filth is harvesting
A rich and growing vice.

The age of genocide has risen,
For spirit lives inside a pen.
Yet eating half-wits stay quite deaf
To warning signs again.

Though holy icons weep with darkness,
And reason starts to rot,
This broken world of damaged souls
Still cannot see the plot.

It marches on toward its ending,
With dull TV-driven cries —
A road from man into livestock,
Where consciousness slowly dies.



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To Die of Shame

My hands fall down again in weakness,
No strength to watch this filth unfold.
Not boredom now will bring my ending —
But shame will take me to the cold.

Ashamed of all the mindless cattle,
Of slave-born herds that bow and crawl.
And yes, there truly is such shame here —
A stain upon the human all.

For when the fools and empty-headed
Construct a world of pure decay,
Filling their pockets, bags, and coffers
As payment for the devil’s way,

It’s not even fear that rises —
Not terror at the idiot reign.
Even those “unhinged” and reckless
Are led like sheep along that chain.



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Cannibal’s Melancholy

I’m starving to death from hunger —
A hunger for human souls.
Those with a spark of spirit
Are gold, not mindless foals.

The pigs in their masks are tasteless,
Dry meat with a rotten tone.
And all those rumors are useless —
That “all flesh weighs the same” alone.

For a soul, when it lives in a body,
Weighs barely twelve grams in sum.
And truly, its flavor is delicate —
Like pastries on the tongue.

But when you consume an idiot
Who proudly wears his mask,
A wave of disgust and hiccup
Arrives as your body’s task.

You never feel like a cannibal —
A sheep just tastes like a sheep.
And in this sheeple-virus era
Delicacies are hard to keep.



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Bedlam of Imbeciles

“In the bedlam of inhuman beasts
I refuse — to live.”
— Marina Tsvetaeva, 1939


If even then the world was such a hell,
With half the earth beneath fascism’s spell,
Then what we face now isn’t shame at all —
Just imbeciles marching toward their fall.

In this bedlam of fools, no life can stay,
No tragic “to be or not” holds sway.
That’s Hamlet’s luxury, distant and rare —
Or Maxim Gorky fighting the slave within despair.

For us, there’s only one remaining line:
To cleanse this rot, this creeping blight of swine.
When such a world can no longer let humans live,
The only task is what none forgive.

The plague of new fascism must be undone —
This madness ended, or we are none.



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Fatigue

Fatigue begins to fade away,
That ancient curse of mind,
Bestowed like doom upon all those
Who dare to think and find.

Before the world’s collapse arrives,
Stand firm and do not fall.
The filthy stalls of neo-fascist reign
With banners black and tall

Hold no terror for the mind
Still lit with inner flame.
For fascist plague will lose its grip
And crumble into shame.

The battle is not lost at all
If will remains unbent.
The map of monsters is destroyed —
Their lies are heaven-sent.

They’ll vanish with the clouds of fraud,
When fire from above
Cast down this world to hell itself
For centuries of blood.



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Lethargic Sleep

The dull sheep only sees the trough,
And cheers the filth it’s fed.
A crooked cop, a blunt-edged doc
Will lull him off to bed.

And doctors blind, and cops half-deaf
Keep joining in the chain —
Becoming part of mindless herds
That serve the rise of pain.

Then even cops and butcher-doctors
Will be cleaned out in turn,
Like traitors swept away by force
When fascist fires burn.

The hunt goes on, the rounding-up
Of humans day by day —
A kind of final judgment coming,
With no more words to say.

Just blow up hell — and let it go,
No matter if we die.
We’re turned to beasts already now,
And sleep as beasts go by…



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Hell in a Loop

I’ve come back home from a war that was endless,
Where sons of the mind were erased in the darkness.
A stinking abyss where the many are broken,
All stripped of their reason — and equal in blindness.

But where is the light and the “tunnel” they promised?
Where is the peace that the dying are sold?
Even a crack in some Dantean prison —
A sip of freedom to numb the cold?

Yet here there is only consuming blackness,
No answer at all, just a question that screams.
The soul’s cry withers, exhausted and helpless —
And hell just repeats itself, looped through our dreams.



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The Idiots

The idiots are always closing in,
Harassing you more than any foe.
You may grow pale with grief and strain,
Still trying to break their chains and go.

But you will only reach new fools —
And all that effort proves in vain.
For every crowd of fresh imbeciles
Brings newer madness, newer chains again.

The masked-up idiots give their sign
To what’s left of men: your time is through.
If you still think — they load the van,
And send the camp straight after you.

Then idiots will put themselves to sleep
With poisoned shots delivered wide.
Preferring blind obedience to life,
They march into their idiot hell with pride.



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I Think — Therefore I Die

To think in this world
Is a dangerous sign.
They’ll flush you away
For no real crime.

All those who still think,
Or even pretend
A shadow of thought —
Will meet their end.

In sheeple-plague times
The clever won’t last.
They’ll drown in the lie
Spreading fast.

Of fake viral fear,
And engineered dread —
A second wave coming
To crush your head.

This wave will bury
All out of line,
Who won’t march in step
With the fools of decline.



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No Bird Flu — Just Chicken Brains

No, this is not
“bird flu” they cry,
some sudden “go!”
from the sky.

It’s only chicken brains
you carry inside,
my friends —
let truth decide.

The swine-plague virus
made it clear:
your mind has melted
into fear.

The sheep-virus stamped
what’s “normal” now —
a mass psychosis,
empty somehow.

The old fascist madness,
a psycho-strain,
always survives
through endless pain.

Mixed with idiot-virus,
it multiplies,
and generations
lose their eyes.

It breeds a new species
of dull-eyed herd,
as solid and blank
as a dead, gray word.

And soon will come
that final day
when idiot shadows
block all way.

This lying world,
so foul, so grim,
will drown forever
in madness dim.

And the feast of filth
will carry on —
for years unending,
cold and gone.



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Candy Made of Filth

The vile inhuman crowd just laughs at us,
Forever testing how far we’ll bend.
And truth be told, the fault is partly ours —
We call pure idiocy “art” again and again.

A filthy dauber like Picasso
Can hardly be called an artist among men.
Whether it’s art is judged by money —
The cash-register’s verdict defines it again.

But devils don’t really care for “art” at all —
They’ve other aims for the human herd:
To build a breed with no mind, no feeling,
Obedient cattle without a word.

By handing out filth dressed up as pleasure,
They’ve managed to build such a perfect mess
That no jailer is even required anymore —
The sheep will shear themselves, I guess.

We’ve reached the point of official testing
Of real excrement as “food” today.
And this is not some blogger’s madness —
It’s a warning of doom on its way.



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The New Nuremberg

All ideals are flying straight to hell,
And thought is caged, and honor too.
Only masked enforcers wander —
This herd of fools keeps growing through.

This local hell is now more tangled:
A mountain built of lie on lie.
The idiots march in fresh new shackles,
And wear them proudly, heads held high.

They must now strive with great devotion
To inject the poison into all.
Or else the useless human masses
Will multiply beyond control.

The thinking man is not required
By these inhuman beasts of shame,
Who turned the world into a circus
And turned existence into flame.

But soon enough the gallows waiting
Won’t fit the swine they’ve bred so far.
And when that final time is coming,
No mercy left for what they are.



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Spiritual Nonsense

Once there was Guru Osho — smooth-talking sage,
Spinning sweet words like a hypnotic charm.
He gathered followers page after page,
And left many souls outside the storm and the war.

A war that is waged in the battlefield mind,
Where “god” is the banner of genocide’s hand.
Instead of weapons, they hand out dreams —
And every dreamer is quietly damned.

Whose side you’re on is not hard to see:
If you are wealthy, you’ve made your choice plain —
You’re sowing poison in layered deceit,
Standing with those who enslave and constrain.

Weaving patterns of language, drugged and refined,
All gurus still offer hope to the blind.
But Earth is not craving some navel-gazing dream —
It carries a far different message inside.

Now is the moment to rescue the world
From inhuman rulers and chains of the slave.
That is the message worth carrying forth —
Not poisoned illusions that gurus gave.



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Dreams of Nuremberg

I dream of rows of gallows standing,
Like factory lines that never cease.
Where beasts of burden find their ending
In swampy filth of sheeple-plague disease.

That swamp is drowning out the living,
And beasts are proud of what they’ve done.
They feel secure in self-deception,
As if their traces cannot come undone.

But every act of that whole swarm,
Each mark they leave, each hidden deed,
Is clearly written, stored, and counted
By judgment — human, higher creed.

And all this filth will face its reckoning,
Before both God and human eyes.
And those who built this world of horror
Will meet the fate their crimes imply.

It’s time for beasts to dream their justice —
With ropes already at their throats.
They leave behind this rotting chaos,
And burn in hell where Gaia votes.



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Global Warming

The Sun once rose in morning gold,
A gentle warmth, a sight to please.
But decades passed — the tone grew cold,
And turned to white through shifting seas.

It found a path to burn away
The scum that stains the Earth below,
When humankind became the lice
That spread and multiplied in woe.

When freedom died in mindless crowds,
And filth replaced what once was bright,
The planet groaned beneath the weight
Of those who never chose the right.

The Sun and worlds are linked as one —
A subtle flow of energy.
The Earth sends up its silent need,
And gets its answer endlessly.

If parasites grow far too bold,
The Sun can dry them like a stain.
And earthly pests will pay their debt
As cleansing fire comes again.

And what remains of humankind
May aid this turning, if they call
That higher Light to purge the dark
And help restore the ruined all.