31 poems

Pinocchio and Dunno —
Guess what purpose they all show?
Add Cheburashka in the line,
With Wash-’Em-Clean — what’s the grand design?

Mind and Spirit, thirst to know —
Through the ages, running slow,
Threads of rot are tightly spun:
Kill the Mind till thought is done.



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Interrogation — question’s mask.
Command’s the shell for darker tasks.
A flood of sludge from mouths of Night
Keeps drowning meaning, truth, and light.

We barely question — reason’s dead,
For Darkness answers first instead.
Its ready verdict, cold and spread,
Drives shattered minds straight into dread.



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A Yard Cat and the “Normal” Moron — A Comparison

“Beasts, living beside us, grow tame,
while people, living with each other, grow savage.”
— Heraclitus

A stray little kitten — I fed him for years,
And grown into manhood, he’s loyal and true.
He loves me more deeply than most of my peers —
More God seems within him than fools ever knew.



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Friday turns to filthy play
When the weekend comes your way.
Robinson’s man Friday, friend,
Turns to Sunday in the end.

Mindless labor, dull and vast,
Kills the thinking mind at last.
Yet the greater fool by far
Is the boss who barks from afar.



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A Million Blazing Strokes

The foolish painter lost the key:
Create — that is your destiny.
To waste your strength on fleeting lust
Is how great talent turns to dust.

The Maker’s chances come out few,
And money’s scarce for spirits true.
What suits a scoundrel’s hollow craze
Will choke the soul that lives through paints.

So strain yourself — lay down, alone,
A million strokes on canvas stone.
For solitude’s the artist’s law:
Bring Light through color people saw —
Till sleeping souls begin to thaw.

Death settles every score at last:
Flowers wilt and ages pass.
But if through colors God breaks free
Into the Book of Beauty’s sea,

Then written there your work shall stand,
A Bible for a darker land.
And should He drag the world once more
From Hell’s exhausted, rotting floor —
Your fire still lives within the core.

The Creator’s life burns brief and fast.
Think. Create. Hold strong till last.
Avoid the fool who chains the climb,
And those who drain your gift and time.

And if you walked this road alone,
Though grief and endless nights were known,
You still remained your spirit’s king —
If through the Dark you brought the Spring.



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A hedgehog in the misty gray,
A biker riding through the rain —
Soon both will watch their hopes decay,
Their dreams collapse in quiet pain.

The hedgehog lives in fairy haze,
The biker burns in restless flight.
Without the “grease” that smooths the days,
All happiness is thin and slight.



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Bicycle Ride

“The land of bicycles,” they say,
Puts health above the prize and pay.
Victories come only third —
Ride while autumn’s breath is heard,
Before the first cold snow is stirred!



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The Donkey’s Crossing

The donkey’s road is hard and long:
The blinders fit, the pull is strong.
But now the carrots taste like rot —
They churn the stomach on the spot.

So “carrot and the whip” once sweet
Has turned to lashes, cold deceit.
The wretched traveler trudges on
With twisted mouth and spirit gone.

And where he walks — he does not know.
Progress now means narrower show.
The road runs onward through the trees —
The slaughterhouse waits past the leaves.



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Not Along the Same Road…

“A fragile cork above strong iodine!
How quickly it decayed away!
So too the soul invisibly
Burns through and eats the flesh each day.”
— Vladislav Khodasevich


The body’s wearing down? Then run,
Use heat and motion till it’s done.
But cleanse your consciousness from lies
Through inward sight that clarifies.

Delusion corrodes deeper still —
Destroy falsehood with iron will.
The farther one in falsehood goes,
The darker poison for the soul grows.

Total lies through fear spread fast,
Turning minds to fools at last.
The body’s just a shirt we wear,
A hook for chains that tighten there.

The mind in shackles — that’s the art
Of slavery refined and dark.
Stand stubborn in awareness bright,
Or you will vanish in the night

If you keep trusting even small
Fragments of the grand deceitful wall.
You see it plainly in decay:
False sickness sweeping lives away,

Through toxins, panic, fear, and fraud —
A rotting global madhouse squad,
Where lies consume the world entire,
A chopping block for those who tire

Of crawling as obedient beasts.
Care for the soul, not flesh that feasts.
Let fascists grind their nonsense more —
Soon cataclysm hits the shore,

And worldly ugliness will drown.
Touch Spirit while you’re still around —
The higher spheres can break the spell
Of all the chimeras bred in hell.

Those chimeras eat the soul
Just like delusions take their toll:
Dreaming always, blind and vain,
Yet never striving less harm to gain.

This world became a stubborn blight
Against the Spirit and the Light.
Defeat it first within your head —
Throw out its filth, its psychic dead.

The road is hard, the falls are real,
But rise again with stricter steel.
If you collapse, restart the fight —
Your road parts ways with hell’s dark blight.



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Crop Failure

“Numerous cases of mass famine were carefully concealed in the Russian press.
The word ‘famine’ itself was strictly forbidden —
instead they used the term ‘crop failure.’”
— Konstantin Kalinin


Famine masked as “poor harvest yield” —
Nineteenth century’s deceit concealed.
The people bent beneath the yoke
Of beasts in power dressed as folk.

The tsar? A human — so they claimed.
The system still remained the same.
Today those creatures grew more sly,
Though soft and harmless to the eye.

More vicious now through false disease,
Through war-born lies sold with ease.
Their claws wear velvet, voices smooth —
Yet poison still infects the truth.



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Mediocre Childhood

Childhood serves to make minds small —
Growth’s discouraged most of all.
Cheer the lie and play the game:
Fools are useful, dull and tame.

If you’re honest, sharp, and clear,
You’re the misfit wandering here.
For this cattle-pen of strain
Hates the thoughtful human brain.

You’re unfit for sly betrayal,
So your climb is doomed to fail there.
Little payment comes to Mind —
That’s the order of mankind.

Children often see things straight:
“Geek” they mock the one who thinks.
While the idiot climbs in state,
And the engineer just sinks.

Rub your elbows, kiss the chain —
Then “success” you might obtain.
That’s the lesson taught in youth:
Trade your backbone, trade your truth.

Childhood rolls on — darker still,
Grinding down the sharper will,
While inventing myths and praise
For the deadened, hollow days.



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Impermissible Abstraction of Force in Physics

F=ma


Force is not momentary —
That formula grows contrary.
Where are subtle tests that prove
All the depths such laws should move?

Minds get trapped in rigid frames —
Throw those schemas to the flames.
Too many memes in “science” breed,
Too little living thought indeed.



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The Impermissible Abstraction of Force in Physics

F = ma — Newton’s Second Law.


Force is not instantaneous —
That formula’s too crude for us.
Where are the subtle tests that show
What deeper layers truly know?

The mind is trapped in rigid frames;
Throw out stale academic games.
Too many memes in borrowed lore,
Too little truth worth fighting for.



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The Impermissible Abstraction of Force in Physics — Extended Version

F = ma — Newton’s Second Law.


Force is not a lightning flash —
That formula is overslashed.
Where are the subtle tests that trace
The finer workings time can’t face?

The mind is stuck in rigid schemes;
Throw them out with borrowed dreams.
Too many memes parade as truth,
Too much decay disguised as proof.

An athlete hurls his spear ahead,
The swing already widely spread.
His effort flows through every phase,
Distributed through winding ways.

And when release at last takes flight,
The final spark is small and slight.
Where is physics’ breakthrough then?
A mirage for lesser men.

An abstraction built from “force,”
While acceleration runs its course
Both before and after throw —
Yet simple answers please the slow.

Corruption of the mind expands;
It thrives in schools and sterile plans.
But Nature quietly provides
The clues that dogma often hides.

Like sculptors carving stone apart,
Cut all excess with lucid art.
In flashes of awakened sight
Strip falsehood naked in the light.

Fools stand dangling from the edge
Of counterfeit and rotting “knowledge.”



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“Love” for Tyrants

The “Little Father Tsar” —
A vicious beast at heart.
Sweet lies spread thick like tar,
And fear corrodes the dark.

A Stockholm sickness blessed
By priests who preach: “Obey.
Love tyrants as the best.”
So sheep are led astray.

And now the nightmare’s grown:
For flocks a double stands —
Another “father” throne,
A parasite that brands.



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Summing Up One’s Experience at the End of Life-Day

“Abraham Maslow was right when he said that peak experience makes a person healthy, and that only a healthy person is capable of total experience... At the peak, you touch the feet of God.”
— Osho


Consciousness grows worn and tired
Through the years of crippled life,
Through the tortures heaped on Spirit,
Through the grinding inward strife.

Still — erupt one final time
In a bright and blazing wave.
Your experience holds value,
If you dare refuse the grave

Of this stale and hollow world.
Let false “friends” all fade away.
Turn instead toward worthy labor —
Forge your pain to something great.

Shape your suffering through creation,
Rework all you’ve lived and known.
Be courageous: in the middle
Mostly lies and dust are thrown.

Only peak experience matters,
If you truly reached that height.
Gather, forge, distill its essence
From the endless inward night.

Though despair may drown you over,
Though the sorrow feels unsealed,
Follow still this simple principle —
Something fierce may yet be revealed.

Then perhaps you’ll leave behind you
Words that cut instead of crawl —
Not another heap of garbage,
But a living, burning call.



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Enough of strain and effort,
Enough small wounds to bear —
Yet I did not fall helpless,
Nor did madness seize me there.

That shifting, total falsehood,
Those chains renamed as “change” —
Could not consume the Spirit,
Unfading, bright, and strange.

No lucky ace was given
In that bleak and joyless youth;
A joker fell instead to me —
And pushed me toward the truth.

I never drowned in “artfulness,”
In hollow cultured lies;
The madhouse always sickened me,
Its masks, its deadened eyes.

And so since childhood burned the search:
Go farther. Break away.
For only those who walk through Hell
Earn glimpses of the Way.



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The Race

A race is subtle, razor-thin —
Like cycling where skill must win.
But among the stumps sunk deep in lies,
The coarse brute prospers, cheats, and thrives.

He does not know he is a stump —
“Still growing upward!” thumps his drum.
The law of pseudo-life is clear:
Cut roots away, inject false cheer.

Convince the stumps that growth remains,
Sell the timber, profit gains.
And if some grumble at their fate —
Tell them Heaven’s just past the gate.

“The road to bliss is paved this way!”
Meanwhile flash sports on display:
Cycling, football, endless games —
So fewer notice darker aims.

The road to Hell’s not paved by dreams,
But patience shown to wicked schemes.
Evil thrives when people wait,
Hopelessly expecting fate.

Childhood leans on dreams and myths
While branches fall to sharpened scripts.
A cheap distraction, well-designed,
To keep the chopping from the mind.

The race of stumps through hopes and fears —
Ignorance applauds and cheers.
Leave that madness while you can:
Darkness wrecks each racing plan.

They're driving nonsense — that’s the race!
Only finer states of grace
Can strip the total lie away
In this infernal world of clay.

Refine yourself and inward grow,
Or bid your soul farewell below.
Hell devours the spirit whole
If you love life among the stumps and trolls.



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Modern Storytellers

The preface isn’t the story —
Go ahead, begin the play.
If you’re shameless in your lying,
You can thrive that very way.

But the tale turns dark and rotten,
More a nightmare than a dream:
Like on orders from above, you
Manufacture empty schemes.

These new storytellers swarm now,
Thick as insects in the heat.
In the kingdom built on myth, friend,
Smoothest liars always eat.

Fame and sacks of money follow
Those who twist the lie just right.
And the hordes of global evil
March together day and night.

If they build a giant Camp, then
All must chant the same refrain.
Under banners, some foul fabulist
Spreads his well-rehearsed campaign.

Even crosses on the banners
Mask a darkness wrapped as “care.”
Though it’s glitches stacked on glitches,
Idiots still trust the snare.

Yet the story won’t be finished,
Nor the Camp completely sealed.
They can’t shift the mind forever,
Can’t keep all perception kneeled.

Cataclysm waits to shatter
All the vileness standing here,
Saving souls that still seek reality
Through the madness and the fear.

Few remain among the myths now
Who still crave what’s true and real.
They will start the world anew once
Falsehood cracks beneath the wheel.

But the gullible and passive,
Tolerating evil’s reign,
Walk to Hell as in a nightmare,
Living shackled, numb with pain.



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Where Can One Catch a Breath?

Fools aren’t always born from malice —
Often weakness shapes their role.
From the womb through school and labor,
Pointless grinding twists the soul.

When the savage fool emerges,
Hard to trace the moment clear.
Turned against his fellow humans,
Fed by lies and drilled by fear.

Propaganda, raids, repression —
Systems train it well enough.
Marching proudly far ahead there
In the global swamp of guff.

And the planet, sadly, isn’t
Far from those dead-minded stumps.
“CowID” exposed the bottom
Where this foolish world now slumps.

Media reeks with rot and poison,
Noise and lies from wall to wall.
If you want one breath of freshness —
Even toilets smell less foul.



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Gas inside the package guards it
From the germs that spread decay.
Media-beasts protect the masses
From harsh truths the very same way.

If your mind’s been split and damaged,
You are “shielded” from the facts.
Every year the truthful layer
Shrinks beneath deception’s wax.

Total lies corrode and blacken,
Truth dissolves in poisoned air.
Veins of Spirit grow much thinner —
Crooks and vermin everywhere.

Two-thirds rotten once already,
Now far more — “CowID” showed
How the masks came off completely
On this dark and crumbling road.

God still marks the fraud and traitor;
Satan brands with muzzled shame.
What was hidden surfaced outward —
And the world’s no more the same.



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Propagandist of Doom

Like a “Chikatilo tale” for the fools,
A monstrous propagandist rules.
A pillar of fascist will and spite,
Driving the last scraps of thought from sight.

He bares his teeth through CowID fear,
And through new wars that appear.
Global fascism, cold and vast —
And many minds have died en masse.

He even outdoes Goebbels’ name —
A F;hrer clone in modern frame.
The “people” nod in dull consent,
Declaring him authentic — spent.

Once two-thirds were fools and blind,
Now the count has redefined:
Satan’s daughters, sons, and brood
Spread deeper waves of servitude.

Three-quarters now — or even more,
Though numbers still can be explored.
A mask became the measuring sign
Of what was coming down the line:

False diseases, plandemic lies,
Followed by the next disguise.
Not Chikatilo is the threat —
But memes of cruelty far worse yet.

What’s concealed? The Sun still glows,
Brighter each year as onward flows.
It will burn all lies to dust,
Ending fascism’s final thrust.

Then follows a spiritual world —
But will the fool be there, unfurled?
Hardly. He’ll arrive instead
In Hell, with fascist banners spread.



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Relationships

Man and woman — clouds of chatter,
Small annoyances and noise.
Life slips by, and nothing matters,
No time for soul or inner voice.

Wake from this servile condition,
Break away from that dull stream.
Turn within like monks in silence,
Exit this consuming dream.

Life is short, and finding someone
Truly similar to you —
Free of lies and constant fiction —
Almost never breaks on through.

At best a fleeting moment,
Something like baraka’s light:
Rare alignment, brief and glowing,
A near-impossible delight.

(Baraka — a Sufi notion of grace, blessing, or sudden spiritual clarity.)



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Time

“Clocks do not show time — they symbolize it.”
— Avessalom Podvodny

“Although Great Time embraces everything in a complete, unextended way, lower time must conform to the view of one thing at a time, surrounded by limited knowledge.”
— Tarthang Tulku


“Linear time” was drilled inside
With nonsense fed to every mind.
If you make no inner stride,
Then you are trapped — no way to find.

Timelessness is what you notice
When you look at social space.
But Soul exists beyond all motion
Once you enter Spirit’s grace.

Reject the lie of straight progression,
Don’t get stuck in GR’s frame.
Rot is pumped in every section —
Even science takes its shame.

The world has turned into “nothing,”
For exceptions are so few.
Turn to inward observation —
Stand up in your mind anew.

Time itself is deepest mystery —
Read Tarthang Tulku’s line.
Turn within and calmly tell all
Fascist nonsense: “Not mine.”

Fascism spreads in cycles,
Lies that rot like looping chains.
Forms adapt to fit the victim
As intelligence wanes.

Truth is changed to suit the target,
Stupid masses further led.
Soon they’ll reach a Pol Pot echo —
But with lies that kill instead.

CowID showed this system clearly,
“New diseases” next in line,
Poison masked as care and mercy
While they steal the human mind.

Seek to know. Resist the darkness.
Never pause the inner fight.
To be yourself means constant searching —
Otherwise you lose the light:

A slave inside the global madhouse,
Ending life in linear sleep —
Absorbing shame and slow corruption,
Sinking downward, dark and deep.



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Dunno, Find Out

Hey “Dunno,” go try to discover
That much of “knowledge” is deceit.
Strain your mind a little further,
Let your intuition reach its peak.



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Silver Bullets

Silver bullets, made in batches,
Mass-produced and sharp and bright —
All the foolish world gets flattened
By the vampires overnight.

They suck “gavaah” (life-force rumor),
Feast on blood in war and smoke;
Cow-like patience turns the rumor
Of the world into a joke.

Silver bullets — words that shatter
Every lie they aim to spin.
If your pocket holds just air there,
Then you stand for rotten sin.

Time is short — the clock is breaking,
Move ahead or lose it all.
Otherwise the mass is taken,
Turned to rabble, cheap and small.

Silver bullets should be flowing
As a global form of trade —
Words that break the lies are growing
Into currency unmade.

Kulaks of the mind and spirit
Stand as foes to Satan’s plan —
If you learn to see and hear it,
You remain a human man.



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In the World’s Barn

Manure stuffed deep inside the ear,
Noodles of nonsense piled on top.
The soul is aching, full of fear —
They shit on those who’re down below, nonstop.

And peck at those above the stall,
That’s how the rules of barn-life go.
But don’t go mad beneath it all —
The Pens will fall in one harsh blow.

A vicious Cataclysm rides
For patience stretched through endless night.
Farewell, fascism and its tides —
Decay, be gone from human sight.



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The Copper Basin

Roofs are covered up with shingles,
Pseudo-life is capped with tin.
Under copper basins, single
Whispers from Above won’t get in.
Below — just slime and dim distortion,
Thick with fear and liquid lies.

That slime of lies and dark contortion
Holds the copper dome in guise.
If the crowd is mostly broken,
You don’t need bombs or gas to kill —
False diseases will be spoken,
Global ruin spread at will.

Lies will multiply like cancer,
Apocalypse by stealth and grin.
Satan plays the perfect answer —
Master of deceit and sin.

Yet above, the heat is rising,
Sun grows stronger every day.
Not inspection, but chastising
Fire at the End of Days.

If not trapped beneath this casing,
Some could still be pulled from fire.
But as it is — all fall embracing
New Hell’s copper-domed empire.



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Dunno and the Pyramid of Serfdom

Pyramids of the “tollpa-elitist” system: inverted one of information, upright one of power, and again inverted — the depth of collapse.


Dunno, go find out —
Much “knowledge” is lie.
Push your mind further out,
Let instinct run high.

And in that same fashion
You’ll outshine Wise One —
Though wealth or compassion
For you will be none.

A pyramid guiding
The masses below —
Of “info” and hiding
For those in the flow.

The learned and rotten
Rise up to the top,
Where manners are forgotten
And thinking must stop.

But that is another —
The pyramid’s core:
Of real-world power,
Where life is no more.

A place where all breathing
Turns hollow and grim,
Where meaning is leaving
And faces grow dim.

And then there’s the third one —
Of downfall and night,
All over, yet hidden
From ordinary sight.

Three pyramids standing —
Dunno, stay away.
From sinking and landing
In filth of decay.



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The “Nobel” Contradiction

The Nobel guard of letters, wary,
Won’t reward the dynamite in verse.
What they call “culture” is just carry
Of fools who make the whole thing worse.

For true culture is rebellion,
When the world is chained as one.
Such a voice gets no compendium
In awards made safe and numb.

If you fit their institution,
You support the slave machine.
Or you dress up substitution
For the truth they’ve never seen.

Polished lies for dull consumption
Built by “science”’s high priests —
Just more glitter, more corruption,
Feeding crowds at endless feasts.



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Weather Motifs

Push forward, work with fervor,
Describe the sky and sea,
And please the mad observer
Who craves absurdity.

The slave who’s gone unhinged
Just wants oblivion’s mist;
While honest minds grow thinner —
In Hell they can’t exist.

Even when writing weather,
Write only for the crowd —
Where fear and greed together
Make every mind run loud.

They dream of cash and pleasure,
Call that “success” instead.
The fools will read your verses
If hype has lifted them.

No need to waste your feeling,
Just market what you sell —
Become a polished dealer
In what politicians tell.

Then praise the power structure,
And serve the ruling hand;
Sing idols of corruption
To please the stupid land.

Morozov and Korchagin —
Where is fascism’s new nest?
To build a global prison,
Just lie a little more and rest.

No grand philosophy is needed —
Just force the herd to kneel.
Slip “ideas” into slogans,
And make them sound like real.

Search templates in the media —
And you become “the new Mayakovsky.”
As if for fame he killed himself —
But “success” was his story.

Political devotion,
Servile assets dressed as art —
These are today’s true value
In this decaying world apart.

So praise both Hell and emptiness —
And call it poetry’s flame;
Where truth dissolves in noise and mess,
And lies receive the name.