71 poems

Victory over NATO

We're defeating NATO — so the story's told,
Yet NATO hasn't noticed, safe beyond the fold.
Meanwhile homes in Ukraine crumble into dust;
"Listen to the Leader!" — livestock say we must.



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Victory over NATO

NATO's being beaten — so the loud mouths say,
Though NATO seems oblivious, far and safe away.
While we smash Ukrainian homes across the land,
"Trust the Mighty Double!" — cattle still demand.



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Victory over NATO

"NATO's crushed!" the slogans roar —
Yet NATO's fine as days before.
Homes are wrecked, the crowds obey:
"Trust the Double!" — herd at play.



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Corruption for Sale

A cruise missile is flying—
Its wings are forged by Hell.
Its makers keep denying
Their homeland's gone as well.

The herd's ID has cleared it,
Their calibrator's right.
The Earth, as many fear it,
Turns Hades-black tonight.

The Horned One waits with patience
For traitors in his pay,
For Satan's wretched agents
Who still won't turn away.

Yet fools remain in service,
As always, bought and sold.
"What price a soul?"—the verdict's
A question bought with gold.

How bitter and how shameful,
How bleak the path they've trod—
The idiots rush headlong
Toward Hell's awaiting rod.



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For a Price

The missile spreads its devil wings,
Its makers sold their land.
The herd approves what CowID brings,
Obedient and bland.

The Horned One waits for bought-out knaves,
For traitors on the take.
"What's your soul worth?"—the question raves,
And fools the bargain make.

Ashamed, disgusted, blind with greed,
They hurry toward the flame.
For Hell rewards each loyal deed
Performed in Satan's name.



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Suicide

"Suicide is fighting vermin,
suicide is yielding too;
hard to bear when you're untalented—
harder still when talent's you."
— Andrei Voznesensky, Marilyn Monroe's Monologue (1963)


Night. A point. A pistol near.
Should one end this farce of fear,
This decaying pseudo-life
Built for fools and mental strife?

Weakness! Better write it down,
Cast in prose or verse the frown.
Drive the bitterness aside—
Petty is the suicide.

Strip bare Shame in all its night,
Utter Shame and full Disgrace.
Sentence passed without a fight—
Execution fills the place.

Yet the idiot cannot see
What unfolds so openly.
Most are idiots—that is why
Vile creatures so often fly.

Vile creatures triumph and reign;
There's the answer, stark and plain.
What a laughable disgrace—
What a dull and stupid place.

Suicide is bearing wrong,
Letting evil march along.
Fortunate the precious few
Who broke through and saw it true.

They see Hell where fools delight,
Calling darkness warmth and light.
Put the pistol down instead,
Shout "NO!" to the filth widespread.

Fight! A far superior way
To leave Hell and break away,
Without Hamlet's endless doubt,
Without questions wearing out.

What is there to be or do?
Rot among the mindless crew?
That's not life but slow self-slaughter—
CowID exposed the horror.

Night. A point. A pistol's gleam.
Fear grows stronger than the dream.
Infernal madness fills the air.
Choice is never simple there.



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Suicide

To bear all evil silently,
To bow and crawl obediently,
To rot among the cheering blind—
That's suicide of soul and mind.

Put down the gun. Refuse the lie.
Stand up, resist, and testify.
For Hell is where the herd complies,
And freedom starts when fear just dies.



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Global Ruin as a Way of Life for Mindless Flesh

No image of the Divine—
But Satan's spawn instead,
If you look at them in wartime
Or where the herd is led.

In the age of CowID's reign,
The global wreck proceeds;
It always rolls downhill again—
Decay is what it breeds.



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Global Ruin

Not children of the Light above,
But Satan's brood they seem,
Whether war is all they love
Or CowID's grand scheme.

Global ruin is their art,
Their talent and their trade:
Downhill runs the rotten cart—
In decay they are well paid.



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Global Ruin

Not God's image—Satan's seed.
War and lies are all they need.
Global ruin, grand decay—
That's their skill and chosen way.



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Watching the Brainwash Box...

A triathlete excels at three—
Survival is the highest fee!
Spirit, Mind? They've lost their worth.
TV drones consume the Earth:

Munch and crunch and stare all day—
"What amazing progress!" they say.
Media lies rise to the skies,
Stacking falsehoods mountain-high.

Judgment waits beyond the fog;
Wrath will sweep the works of fraud.
Endless channels stab the sight,
Bought-out scoundrels day and night.

Switch the brainwash box away,
Let your inner Light hold sway.
This masquerade will fade at last—
Only fools wish it to last.



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Watching the Idiot Box

Eat and stare, obey the screen,
Call the madness "progress keen."
Mind and Spirit sold for trash,
While media feed the crash.

Turn the idiot box off today,
Let the inner Light lead the way.
The carnival of lies won't last—
Only fools are spellbound fast.



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Upside Down

To get upon the TV screen,
You first must sink where few have been.
The world's reversed: the trash is crowned,
While talent's buried underground.

True talent's hard to steer and chain;
It rarely serves the fraudster's gain.
But giants of the mass-made show
Float upward all on their own.

This world's a cesspool. Chunk by chunk,
The larger waste ascends the funk.
Betray and sell yourself for gain—
That's how the ladder's climbed and claimed.

Yet that proud "top" will someday fall.
A global cataclysm's call
Will turn the whole thing upside down
And drag the lofty frauds back down.



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The World Turned Over

To reach the screen and gain acclaim,
First lose your soul and sense of shame.
Trash takes the spotlight, loud and grand;
Real talent's buried in the sand.

The bigger fraud, the higher it climbs,
On lies, betrayal, and petty crimes.
But when the global reckoning begins,
The summit falls—and so do its kings.



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Stumbled on a Stump

He tripped on a stump,
Leapt over the fence.
Long live sloth and slump!
The pen is immense—

A comfort to swine,
A pleasure to fraud.
What bliss to resign
And wallow unawed.



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The Pen

He stumbled and fell,
Then jumped o'er the rail.
Long live sloth as well—
Inside, none can fail.

The pen is a pleasure,
A haven for rot.
A rogue finds his treasure—
Content with his lot.



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Comfort Zone

He tripped on a stump,
Then cleared the fence line.
Long live the lazy lump—
The pen suits him fine.

A paradise built
For scoundrels and fraud.
They feast in the guilt
That pleases their god.



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Incarnate Hell

Searching for God in a pitiful land—
Could He have fashioned this ruin by hand?
If such questions still arise in the mind,
Reason survives; it has not gone blind.

God seems distant. This foolish domain
Reeks of satanic corruption and stain.
Genocide, fascism, cruelty and lies—
Such are the laurels it proudly applies.

Filth is the idol the masses adore;
Look at Pol Pot and you'll need little more.
Look at the media, spewing their bile,
Flooding the world with delusion and guile.

Prospects are barren. From regions afar,
Where God may dwell beyond sorrow and war,
Harsh rays descended and entered the cage,
Starting a process midway through the age—

Last century's middle. It moved with delay,
Granting humanity one final day,
One final chance. But submission and fear,
Lies upon lies, made that pathway disappear.

Now the whole world resembles a block,
Waiting beneath the executioner's shock.
The age of decadence nears its last scene;
Its closing act plays where hope might have been.

False plagues reveal it; the madness has grown.
Worldwide derangement now sits on the throne.
Ever more foolish and empty each clown,
Serving the evil that drags him down.



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Embodied Hell

Could God create a world like this—
A realm where genocide is bliss?
Where lies are law and fear is king,
And media poison everything?

Look at the tyrants history bred,
Look at the millions maimed or dead.
Look at the screens that shape the herd,
Where truth is drowned by every word.

A final chance was once allowed,
But fear enslaved the willing crowd.
Now decadence completes its role,
And madness spreads from pole to pole.

The signs are plain for those who see:
A world in love with slavery.
Each fool obeys, each coward sells—
And Earth grows closer still to Hell.



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Missing the Cash Register...

"I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous
to our liberties than standing armies."
— Thomas Jefferson, 1802


Money, thick and sticky glue,
Keeps the world in bondage too.
Even rulers serve the Till;
Lesser fools obey its will.

Fools refuse to plainly see
That they're slaves who willingly
Hand their power, inch by inch,
To the hirelings of the Lynch—

For a paycheck, for a crumb:
"Got to survive!" they become
Easy prey. The media spray
Lies that wash the mind away.

Reason, Spirit, Conscience—all
Are the targets of the brawl.
Backed by money, evil's trade
Turns the world into charade.

Then the Till, two centuries strong,
Blew the modern world along.
Steel towers fell; the public heard
A tale prepared in every word.

A cloud of noise hung overhead;
"Bin Laden did it," so they said.
And freedom's remnants disappeared,
While fools kept saving, undeterred.

In the CowID age, for pay,
Executioners found their way.
Some wore white and healed no pain—
"Doctors" serving greed and gain.

Spend and hoard and spend once more;
You'll not notice what's in store.
Hell is built with subtle lies
By those whom profit satisfies.

Honest souls are left outside,
Far beyond the cash-box tide.
If too few refuse the game,
Lies and money win the same.

Madmen wait for fresh commands,
Ready tools in unseen hands.
No restraint remains at all—
And the Till stands ten times tall.



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The Cash Box

Money is the master's chain,
Binding minds through fear and gain.
Fools sell freedom for a wage,
Then applaud their gilded cage.

Media water lies like weeds,
Drowning conscience, thoughts, and deeds.
Truth is left outside the gate;
Profit crowns the counterfeit.

Spend and hoard—ignore the smell.
That's how many build their Hell.
Honest people miss the prize,
While the cash box rules the lies.



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The Soviet Designers

The Soviet designers
Who forged their guns and steel
Had childish minds behind them—
Too blind to grasp the deal.

They never guessed two-thirds
Would one day be unleashed
On Ukraine's fields and cities,
Where devastation reached.

Russia sank so low indeed:
Ruin piled on ruin.
Weapons built for "defense" became
A savage neighbor's ruin.

It's easy for the masters
To point a slave next door;
"Victory over NATO
Is near!"—the fools adore.

"Just look across the border,
That's where the battle lies!"
The idiot believes it,
And swallows all the lies.

The wretched mob stands ready,
Obedient to the end.
The lesson's plain: trust tyrants,
And reason will not mend.

Whenever steel is smelted,
The neighbor pays the price.
There are no "distant enemies"—
That's propaganda's vice.

Has nothing really changed at all?
The answer still is clear:
The liars drive out spirit,
And push aside sincere

Reflection, thought, and conscience.
The obedient fool complies,
Marching off to labor
For each new set of lies.



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Neighbor Wars

They forged the guns for glory,
Or so they liked to claim.
Then neighbors paid the price for
That patriotic game.

"Defeat of NATO's coming!"
The loud deceivers shout.
The fool looks at his neighbor
And takes his anger out.

The trick is old and simple:
Replace the truth with fear.
Then send obedient masses
To fight and volunteer.

There are no distant enemies
When lies control the land.
The neighbor is the victim
Of someone else's plan.



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Nostalgia for the USSR

They long for chains long left behind,
Their narrow thoughts still trapped therein.
For evil of a different kind
Has turned the world to deeper sin.

"Stability" in servitude—
The highest dream the masses know.
And so they brood in gratitude:
"The past was better long ago."

The farther on, the worse things seem—
At least that's what they're taught to say.
For life has shattered every dream,
Yet teaches nothing on the way.



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USSR Nostalgia

They miss the prison of the past,
Mistaking chains for peace of mind.
When one dark age gives way at last,
Another leaves the blind still blind.

"Stability"—the crowd's desire,
A safer cage, a softer whip.
And thus they praise the former fire
While sinking on the selfsame ship.



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Comparing a Tomcat and a Loser

A tomcat is no sucker—
He dearly loves the free.
His meals arrive by luck, or
By feline diplomacy.

The law of all relations
Is simple, clear, and plain:
Treat furry folk with kindness,
And friendship you may gain.

But pitiful mankind is
So often harsh and crude.
It talks of love and virtue,
Yet seldom follows through.

Preaching warmth and goodness,
Compassion, peace, and grace,
While gearing up for battles
In money's endless race.



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The Cat and the Fool

A cat is not a fool at all—
He values liberty.
Food somehow finds its way to him;
That's feline policy.

The rule is short and simple:
Don't harm the furry breed.
But humans, proud and clever,
Show little sign they heed.

They chatter about kindness,
About what's good and right,
Then rush to chase more money
And pick another fight.



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Modern Bullfight

The bullfight gathers shame and pride,
Yet now another turns the tide:
Decay replaces former norms,
As corruption takes new forms.

Open cruelty, harsh and bare,
May be less false than hidden snare.
Desires long buried underground
Return where twisted paths are found.

Such urges now are praised aloud,
Encouraged in the eager crowd.
And foolish minds are taught to cheer
Whatever fashions dominate the year.

Yet these are hardly the worst signs.
A deeper rot through all entwines:
Betrayal is no moral test—
For many, it's a paid request.

The CowID years made it plain:
Self-interest ruled the human brain.
"Protect yourself!" became the creed,
And panic overruled all heed.

Smooth-talking voices sold their wares,
Spreading fears and fresh despairs.
Today's bullfight, if truth be told,
Is played with people in the fold.

The mind is penned behind a gate;
A world like that cannot be saved.
When reason's trapped and fear runs free,
The end result is plain to see.



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The New Arena

The bull is gone. The crowd remains.
Now human minds endure the pains.
Fear drives them where the handlers lead,
Rewarding every thoughtless deed.

Betrayal turned a daily trade,
While truth and conscience slowly fade.
The mind's confined, the herd complies—
And that's how every freedom dies.



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Sailing Ship

For fools, the sail is woven lies,
And fear-filled winds propel the mast.
The strain grows heavy, backs bend low—
Their port of call is Dust at last.



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The Sailboat

The sail is nonsense for the fool,
The winds are fear and lies combined.
The rigging groans, the backbone breaks—
And Dust awaits all humankind.



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Under Sail

The canvas means nothing to the fool;
Its wind is woven out of fear.
The burden bends the sailors' backs—
The harbor named "Dust" draws near.



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A Cure for Boredom

A cure for boredom? Hands will reach
For the editor, and verses flow.
I write for myself, for times now teach
That flatterers reap what truth won't sow.

The favored trade is bending backs,
With words as well as cash and fear.
If you are honest, the crowd attacks—
Your voice is not what they wish to hear.

And fools won't value a crafted line;
Their minds are stuffed with shallow noise.
A vulgar nonsense suits them fine—
That's all a willing slave enjoys.



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Boredom's Remedy

When boredom strikes, I write a rhyme,
Not chasing praise or wealth or fame.
The age applauds the slick and slime,
Who bend the herd and play the game.

The honest poet stands alone;
The crowd prefers a cheaper art.
For nonsense thrives where thought has flown,
And empty slogans fill the heart.



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Repeats Are Thieves

Repeats are thieves
Of lines long past.
Yet no disgrace,
If built to last.



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Borrowed Lines

Repeats may steal
From days gone by,
Yet that's no crime
When verses fly.



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Echoes

Echoes borrow
Ancient lines.
No condemnation
If brilliance shines.



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The World of Infusorians

Dedicated to a certain familiar slipper-shaped infusorian.


Infusorians wear their shoes,
Cockroaches become fodder too.
When brains have spoiled and gone to waste,
And Spirit's penned, replaced by haste.

A world of wretched protozoa,
Judged with neither gloss nor favor:
An ocean made of lies and fear,
While patience keeps the captives here.

The pond of old seems small today—
The flood of falsehood swept away
All boundaries. CowID became
A test that proved the very same:

Amoebas are not hard to fool
When consumerism plays the tool.
The mind is dulled, the senses numb;
The age of thoughtlessness has come.



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Protozoan Age

The Spirit's caged, the mind worn thin,
While lies and fears are flooding in.
CowID exposed the game:
The herd responded just the same.

Amoebas drift where currents pull,
Consumerism keeps them dull.
The pond became a boundless sea—
A kingdom of conformity.



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Lamborghini

A Lamborghini—
Perfect for the herd.
To its two-story pen
It rushes like a bird.



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Lamborghini

Lamborghini—
Made for cattle, so they say.
To its double-decker stall
It speeds without delay.



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Lamborghini

Lamborghini—
Just the thing for pampered stock.
To its fancy two-floor pen
It races round the clock.



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The World's Plague Barracks

Missiles, warplanes, endless lies—
All of it before my eyes
Has grown so stale it turns the gut.
Three-fourths are fools; the rest stay shut.

Traitors, informers, climbing high,
Make up the elite nearby.
Patience's well has long run dry;
The thinking mind can only sigh,

Filled to the brim with bitter gall,
Watching this plague-ridden sprawl.
A pesthouse world, diseased and numb,
Where reason's voice is overcome.



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Plaguehouse Earth

Missiles, war, and endless fraud—
Enough to make one curse and nod.
Most are fools, while those who scheme
Rule the ruins of the dream.

Patience breaks, and bile runs deep;
The waking mind forgets to sleep.
Watching this infected sphere,
One sees decay draw ever near.



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Kitties

Kitties, here I come your way,
Bringing food without delay.
To hell with all the lies and grime—
Your company is worth my time.

Far more precious now to me
Than wading through humanity,
Through all the muck and falsehood spread
By two-legged fools and what they've bred.

You won't go hungry, not today—
I've got your supper on the way.
Food is waiting in my hand;
Come, my friends, and take your stand.



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Cats First

Kitties, here I come with food.
To hell with today's human brood.
Your company means more to me
Than drowning in society.

Don't you worry, don't you wait—
Dinner's coming through the gate.
I've got treats within my hand;
Come, my furry little band.



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Grief

We marched into the meat-grind bold,
Convinced our cause was right and old—
So skillfully convinced and sold
By evil, now half-mad and cold.

It senses now its end is near—
The Sun itself becomes a spear.
A sentence burns in every ray;
The pressure rises day by day.

So Evil grows more bold and vast,
To feast before its breath runs out—
A final banquet, blood and blast,
No trace left when it's cast about.

The creatures of the pit will fall,
And soon will answer for it all—
For every tear, for every woe,
For Grief the world has come to know.



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Sorrow

We went into the brutal fray,
Believing in the righteous way—
So well convinced by Evil's hand,
Now drifting through a shattered land.

It feels its end is drawing near,
The Sun itself becomes a spear.
So chaos feasts before the fall,
To leave no witness, none at all.

But soon the creatures forged in pain
Will face the judgment they disdain—
And answer for the grief they spread
Before the world lies cold and dead.



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The Duckling World

A “duckling” brought a wave of dread,
His double shadows in its stead.
At the crossroads of the world?
No—it vanished, long unfurled.

Not by war, but CowID,
Was the truth made plain to see.
Crawling masses, bent and blind—
Nowhere place for living mind.

Three parts out of every four
Serve the dumb and ask for more.
The stubborn “ducks” still push ahead,
Driven only to be fed...



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Duck World

A “duck” and his reflected twin
Have dragged the whole wide world within
A maze where choice has long been gone—
The world just stumbles blindly on.

Not war, but CowID revealed
How easily the minds are sealed.
Most bow and crawl, and few resist—
The thinking mind is deemed dismissed.

The ducks persist, the herd obeys,
All driven by their feeding ways.



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Prince of This World

Prince of filth, infernal stain,
Severs Spirit’s link with Man,
Feeds on anguish, breath and pain—
A parasite in human span.

From their weakness swells the night,
Fools in darkness lose their sight.
Draining “gava,” beastly feed,
Born of ignorance and greed.



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Prince of This World

Prince of filth, corruption’s lord,
Cuts the Spirit with his sword.
Feeds on suffering, fear, and pain—
Leaving hollow human grain.

Darkness swells where fools submit,
Drained of will and torn to bits.



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Two-Legged Cockroaches

Cockroaches—filth of fascist stain,
A perfect fit for minds profane.
The horned god has torn the valve,
And lies now flood the world’s dark valve.

Fear multiplies, and drives them fast
From flashes of the Light they cast
Back to the kitchen’s reeking shade—
Where answers soon will have to be paid.

This wretched roach-world starts to break
Beneath the weight of fear and fake.
And Dust—the judge, severe and still—
Will grind them down against its will.



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Cockroach World

Cockroaches—fascist rot and grime,
A match for minds of crawling slime.
Fear drives them from the blazing light
Back to their kitchens, damp and night.

Their broken world begins to fall
Beneath deceit that spares none at all.
And Dust will judge, with ruthless hand,
Turning them into scattered sand.



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Two-Legged Cockroaches

Cockroaches—spawn of fascist rot,
A fitting brood for minds long shot.
The Horned One breaks the seal of lies,
And floods the world with blackened skies.

They flee the Light in blind despair,
From every flash that burns the air,
Back to the kitchens, foul and deep,
Where broken things in shadows creep.

And Dust shall rise—the ancient judge,
No plea, no mercy, no reprieve, no grudge.
It comes like silence after war,
To wipe the stain from every floor.

No refuge left, no hidden wall—
The crawling age must break and fall.
And in that final, cleansing flame,
The roaches vanish without name.



---------------------



Tactical and Strategic Planning

"Everyone has a plan for the fight
until they’ve taken a few hits."
— Mike Tyson


Take the blow, but shift your scheme—
tactically, don’t lose the dream.
Straight-line thinkers, bold and fast,
rush ahead… and run aground at last.

At the first real wave that rises,
they smash the rocks in loud surprises,
drown their hopes and plans and pride,
and call defeat “a Tyson guide.”

Strategy: evade, recover,
bide your time, then strike and hover.
Fake the foe, then hit beneath—
ignore the nonsense “wisdom” wreath.

Like some naval battle game,
life’s a mess of shifting aim.
Take the hits and stay your course—
or you’ll crash with no recourse.

All these lessons, wise in tone,
claim they help you on your own—
yet often serve to blunt the blade,
and dress up lies as plans well made.



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Plans of War

Take the hit, adjust the plan—
don’t abandon what you are.
Rushing fools will hit the sand
long before they reach the war.

Strategy is strike and wait,
feint and breathe, then escalate.
Truth is lost in “wise advice”
that often serves the enemy’s guise.

Life is rough, a shifting sea—
only those who bend stay free.
Stand your ground, but learn to flow—
or you’ll sink down below.



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Escape from Hell

“Normal” insanity stands
as the chief obstruction placed
across the path of one who plans
to leave this wretched, falling place.

If you intend to break away,
do not relent, do not turn back—
for “normal” evil will remake
your mind and push it off the track.

Lose nothing from your field of view—
its mosaic shifts and lies.
Each wound becomes a map of truth,
etched in scars that never die.

The trace of evil shows through all—
observe those marks, study them well.
The research of absurdity
becomes your compass out of Hell.

For fools will always drift astray,
toward faint reflections of the Light,
and serving lies along the way
will lead them into empty night.

So trust the sharpened inner sense,
increase the mind’s discerning fire.
Forget all blind obedience—
and flee the pit you now expire.



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Escape from Hell

“Normal” madness blocks the road
for those who leave the Hell they know.
Stay alert, don’t lose the thread—
or Evil bends you back instead.

Read the scars the system leaves,
study lies the world believes.
Fools chase shadows, not the flame—
and end in nothing just the same.

So sharpen mind and inner sight,
reject the rules that feel “alright.”
And when the path begins to show—
run from Hell. Just go. Go.



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Escape from Hell

“Normal” madness—wall in the path.
Soft, familiar darkness.
It doesn’t look like a cage.
That’s the trick.

Keep moving. Don’t call it “escape.”
If you name it—
it tightens.

Everything blends, rearranges itself,
a mosaic of “reasonable” lies.
Don’t lose sight.
Don’t trust the smooth surface.

Every wound—
a mark.
A map.
If you can stand to look at it.

Evil writes in scars,
not words.
Study the scars.
Ignore the speech.

Fools drift toward reflections—
not Light itself.
Always the reflection.
Always the mistake.

They call it life.
It isn’t.

Then—something shifts.
Inside the head.
Inside the breath.

No theory. No tradition.
Just a fracture in obedience.

And through it—
movement.

Not hope. Not faith.
Just exit.

Run.



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Schizophrenia, or “Bright Horizons”

The “horizons” once were glowing,
Yet their promises were blowing
Smoke to frighten common minds—
Splitting truth into two kinds.

Now the “blue-tinted” persuasion,
Tolerance as masqueraded reason,
Wraps the fools in soft control—
Care that hollows out the soul.

CowID showed it in its test:
Where the mind is laid to rest,
“Care” will finish what remains—
Smooth destruction in the chains.

Split of shepherds and their herd
Now exceeds the Soviet word.
Once again the crowd just bleats
While deception takes the streets.

War is stirring once again,
World descends into the drain.
All the “distances” dissolve—
Lies, as always, re-evolve.



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Bright Dystopia

“Bright horizons” turn to fear,
promises that disappear.
Care becomes a subtle chain,
washing out the human brain.

CowID exposed the scheme—
truth dissolved into a dream.
Shepherds split the blinded crowd,
while deceivers speak aloud.

War returns, the world decays,
downward spiral in a haze.
Once again the liar wins—
and the cycle re-begins.



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Schizophrenia, or “Bright Horizons”

They promised “bright horizons” far,
yet fed the crowd with fear and tar.
A split of mind, a fractured sight—
they taught the masses black was white.

Now “tolerance,” that painted mask,
becomes the system’s favored task:
to cradle fools in velvet chains,
while reason slowly leaves their veins.

CowID revealed the modern art—
a mind divided, torn apart.
Where thought is dead and speech is spun,
“care” completes what lies begun.

The shepherds split from flock once more,
as in the days of Soviet lore.
And bleating crowds, both deaf and blind,
march on with emptiness in mind.

Again they spark a war for show,
and down the world begins to go.
All “bright horizons” fade to dust—
for lies remain the final trust.

And at the end, when truth is gone,
the liar still moves proudly on.
No lesson learned, no line is crossed—
just worlds erased, and meaning lost.



---------------------



The Unbending Buffoons

To Europe—just a few quick steps,
To America—by waves and sweats.
And both alike are vast and blind,
Where hungry lives are tightly twined.

If thirst for gain consumes your mind,
You’ll find no mercy of that kind.
They’ll take your will, they’ll twist your fate—
The price of craving is too great.

Yet still one figure stands unmoved,
By neither warning nor reproof.
He spits on fear, on loss, on pain—
The stubborn fool who won’t abstain.



---------------------



The Stubborn Fool

To Europe—dance, to USA—swim,
both ends of hunger turning grim.
If greed for life consumes your core,
you’ll pay for wanting ever more.

They break the ones who chase the thrill,
who cannot curb their restless will.
But one remains, unbowed, unruled—
the unbending, raging fool.



---------------------



The Unbending Buffoon

To Europe—two stomps and you’re there,
to America—swim if you dare.
Two giant backsides rule the view,
and chew up anything you do.

If thirst for “life” consumes your brain,
you’re meat for those who run the game.
They grin, they twist, they take, they tear—
and call it “freedom in the air.”

But one stands laughing in the storm,
immune to warning, loss, or norm.
He bows to none, he yields to no one—
a stubborn, shining, broken clown.

He sings while others start to drown,
he dances as the worlds break down.
And in that laugh, both wild and wrong,
the end times turn into a song.



---------------------



Cycling Cycle

Poga;ar. World stage. A hundred
kilometers still to go.
A solo break—madness thundered
through reason’s steady, ordered flow.

It does not matter if you triumph,
or crash on some forgotten bend.
At speed, the foolish crowd is silent—
their chaos cannot comprehend.

Around you spins a world unsteady,
a swarm of motion, blind and loud.
Yet madness of the brave grows steady
and carves a path through shifting crowd.

For only cyclic courage shows it—
when order blooms from spinning wheels.
On endless loops, the fool who knows it
is crushed by what the cycle feels.



---------------------



Cycling Cycle

A hundred left. Poga;ar breaks—
alone into the storm he takes.
Win or crash, it’s all the same
when madness drives the sacred game.

The world spins loud, without control,
a swarm that never finds its goal.
But brave insanity turns clear
when chaos learns to disappear.

On cycling wheels that never cease,
only the fool believes in peace.



---------------------



Our Tanks Are Swift

Our tanks are swift and razor-clean,
our thoughts are pure, or so they seem.
No cloud upon the iron sky—
no light reflected in the eye.

For purity is emptiness:
no thought, no trace, no heaviness.
The F;hrer’s presence holds us tight—
he stands composed, serene tonight.

And still—the double appears, unseen,
a marvel strange, a broken screen.
A fool inside the armored steel—
the trembling distance starts to reel.

Far off, there’s void of living men,
no true nations left again.
The world is just a rolling tide
of filth and crowds that multiply wide.

Our tanks are pure, our thoughts are fast,
our “truth” is built to ever last.
The world is flipped, distorted, torn—
stubborn, stupid, newly born.



---------------------



Clean Machines

Our tanks run fast, our minds run clear,
no clouds, no doubt, no thought, no fear.
Purity is emptiness—
a calm of iron, cold success.

The world outside is noise and crowd,
a restless mass, unformed, unbowed.
Our truth is fixed, our path is tight—
a flipped-up world of blinded sight.



---------------------



Clean Tanks / Empty Minds

Our tanks are fast. Our minds are clean—
or rather: emptied, sharp, machine.
No sky above, no shade, no sign—
just blankness marching in a line.

For purity is not a state,
but void where thought has lost its weight.
No cloud, no stain, no inner spark—
just perfect silence in the dark.

The F;hrer stands, composed, serene,
a calm that drains what might have been.
Not rage, not doubt, not trembling hand—
but absence made to understand.

And yet—the double flickers through,
a broken mirror split in two.
Inside the tank, the fool is sealed—
while distance cracks across the field.

Beyond lies void where nations were,
no voice, no name, no living stir.
Just waves of mass, unshaped, untrue,
consuming all they pass into.

Our tanks are pure. Our thoughts are fast.
Our “truth” is built to always last.
But what remains, if truth is bright,
is only engineered night.

A world inverted, logic gone—
still marching forward, still moving on.
Where emptiness is called “design,”
and absence draws a perfect line.