18 poems

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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.



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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.