36 poems

Crush, break all mirrored lies,
The world is sunk in total lies.

Truth is only faintly felt through fear,
Now we believe and lie—we live and breathe fear.



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In horizontal sprawl and fall,
forgetting Heights, the Strain, the Call,

Life slips away in slow decay—
a black abscess on the world’s body lay.



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To plunge into the Impossible, sink,
losing all bonds with life’s thin link,
return to Spirit—pure and bright,
or rot in Darkness, filth of night.



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Stench of Media and “Education”

IGNITE THE LIGHT:
Seek insight bright,
within the Fire—
though rare, the mire,
darkness will shove
instead of mind above.



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Feed them pure nonsense—thinking is pain,
their flesh decays, their conscience turns vain,
fear rots the soul, the Dark takes charge—
above the world’s great filth and charge.



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Everything Under Control

Under control—the fear runs deep,
lies stand guard, a fortress steep.
Call for the Light inside your soul,
or sink in filth beyond control.



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The Global Pen

Amid the fascist filth and din
a sheepish mind now rules within.
It governs lies, fear, and decay—
not sheep alone, the pen’s the blade today.



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Voice of the Poet

Poet’s voice—the sky is torn apart,
“Heights” exposed: a satanic art.
A half-step echo breaks apart,
All is censored: pure fascist art.



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Rot’s the law—
but not for long!
Cast out evil’s
lying song, O Man!



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Robbing through “investment plans”
pays far more than guns in hands:
victims dream, again, again,
they’ll strike gold through crooked men.



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Those Who Walk

Through the Void toward the Source they stride,
casting all illusion aside,
the thing called “life” they leave behind—
only they are true in mind.



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Infernal dump—filth everywhere.
You endure it? Fine. Beware:
chat with Darkness, toast the night—
payback comes at morning light.



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Their faith is foam, their god’s a lie.
The goat leads on, and sheep comply—
to shearing first, then slaughter’s gate,
well pleased with their obedient fate.



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Everyone feels “grand” and wise—
yet sells their soul to shades and lies.
Exceptions? Rare beyond all measure
in this Hell of rot and pleasure.



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Bow to dead “great minds” and leaders of clay —
the worms of ideas will eat you away.
For every doctrine hides a second floor:
sweet syrup above, filth underneath the door.



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End of Days

One law remains at ending time:
save your Spirit from the slime.
Stake your whole life on that flame,
despising beasts and all their reign.



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Stunted minds and spirits spoiled —
“Baa!” then chew: beast-slaves well-oiled.
Thus the CREATURE forged its mire…
Rot breeds rage, and sinks still lower in the fire.



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“Awards”

A medal stands where pay should be
for wasted toil and misery.
The swaggering soldiers grin with pride —
“Not for nothing,” they say, “our brothers died.”



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Thoughts entangle, twist, invade —
“Drive them out!” the gurus say.
That is called yoga’s way…
comfort for the weak and grey.



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“You have to earn your life somehow!”
So years are burned beneath the plow.
Life flashes by—a breath, a speck,
while “success” gilds the yoke on every neck.



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Trust not the “good” intentions preached,
nor free cheese set within your reach.
All around is fraud and blur—
the bought-off world is blind, deaf, and dull, sir.



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They kiss the filth as if it’s gold,
trading Light for cursed glow sold.
The reckoning comes, fierce and late—
the Sixth Great Madhouse meets its fate.



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The biomass crawls on in lines,
crowding cash desks, feeding troughs shines.
A bottleneck at swine-filled pits—
all striving’s vain: the Spirit quits.



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A sly rogue?
Not bad at all—
better than a fool who’ll crawl
through this wretched, godless sphere,
where souls forgot why they are here.



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Life passes by — you turn and see:
just lies and raw survival’s plea.
Like a blinded mule you drag the chain
for food and shelter, toil and pain.



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The song has died —
awakened by
the drilling noise nearby.
Break yourself if you insist,
still the fool clings to his mist:
idiots are hard to clear,
dense as walls from ear to ear.



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Change of Regime

The forge breeds cadres,
hammer to the brain.
A brood of vipers —
the new age’s reign.



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Change is foam,
empty froth,
when ancestors’ broth
was rot—
and mind itself
was cast off.



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Laughter stretches out your years;
sarcasm pushes back the fears—
the creeping senile curse of lies,
where world, half-starved and dull, complies,
hooked on nonsense, baited bliss,
the “free cheese” myth it can’t resist.



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Fear is rule. The mind in chains:
lies and badges flood the plains.
Top lie guards the police reserve—
revolt brings batons, cages, nerve.



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They babble on of “holy love,”
while crawling for a crust above.
In rot of lies and madness spread,
they guard the mirages instead.



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Labor

“Hero of labor”—or straight away:
to THERE he goes… that’s all they say.
To hell with him, let him be hurled—
he’s always wasted in this world.
For Creation’s ship, he’s just
a sandbar, grounded in the dust.



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Cowards decay, the brave ones burn.
Who falls first into the urn?
When reason’s dead, and soul’s a scar,
only the rushing ones go far.



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Ease the pain? Forget the Hell—
the Upanishads cast their spell!
And gladly swallows tales untrue
the reborn worm that crawled on through.



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A stubborn worm gnaws at the mind,
refusing peace in night to find.
Darkness closes in from all sides—
who makes his peace with filth, derides.



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Christianity and the Like…

Belief in Lucifer—
that’s the final trace,
once you strip the phantoms off
this whole enchanted place.