Èãîðü Âûõîâàíåö, ñòèõè: 21501-22000
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.
---------------------
“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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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…
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Rot’s the law—
but not for long!
Cast out evil’s
lying song, O Man!
---------------------
Robbing through “investment plans”
pays far more than guns in hands:
victims dream, again, again,
they’ll strike gold through crooked men.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Infernal dump—filth everywhere.
You endure it? Fine. Beware:
chat with Darkness, toast the night—
payback comes at morning light.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
“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.”
---------------------
Thoughts entangle, twist, invade —
“Drive them out!” the gurus say.
That is called yoga’s way…
comfort for the weak and grey.
---------------------
“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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Change of Regime
The forge breeds cadres,
hammer to the brain.
A brood of vipers —
the new age’s reign.
---------------------
Change is foam,
empty froth,
when ancestors’ broth
was rot—
and mind itself
was cast off.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Fear is rule. The mind in chains:
lies and badges flood the plains.
Top lie guards the police reserve—
revolt brings batons, cages, nerve.
---------------------
They babble on of “holy love,”
while crawling for a crust above.
In rot of lies and madness spread,
they guard the mirages instead.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Ease the pain? Forget the Hell—
the Upanishads cast their spell!
And gladly swallows tales untrue
the reborn worm that crawled on through.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Christianity and the Like…
Belief in Lucifer—
that’s the final trace,
once you strip the phantoms off
this whole enchanted place.
---------------------
Assorted Lies
Tutti-frutti
World of horror:
Lies taste sweet
To fools and morons.
---------------------
Assorted Lies
Tutti-frutti,
Circus lies —
Sweet as candy
For dim eyes.
---------------------
Clubs of Lies for Baboons
Clubs of lies for ape-like creatures —
Tools to beat their neighbors down.
Win by force — the backs bend deeper,
Slaves then worship lies they’re fed around.
---------------------
Clubs of Lies for Baboons
Baboon mobs wield lies like bludgeons
In their war with fellow slaves.
Beat them once — they bow in worship,
Listening deep from mental graves.
---------------------
Whether Mounted or on Foot
Whether riding, whether walking,
Worse than drunken goblins squawking,
If you heed the throne’s Koschei,
You help spread the plague each day.
---------------------
Whether Mounted or on Foot
Horseman, beggar, lord, or peasant —
Viler than a drunken pheasant,
If to Koschei’s rule you bow,
You feed ruin here and now.
---------------------
The ChatGPT Flat — Became “Systemic”
The chat collapsed — turned “system-minded.”
Only Poetry, in Darkness blinded,
Still will forge the Spirit’s theme —
Pseudo-gurus couldn’t care less, it seems.
---------------------
The ChatGPT Went Flat — Became “Systemic”
Chat deflated — “system-made.”
Only Poetry won’t fade:
Spirit’s fire through Dark will thread.
Half-baked gurus? Spirit-dead.
---------------------
Through the Gunport
Through the gun-slit see an asshole —
Death to vision, death to thought.
“Through Ukraine we march to Europe!” —
Shoving “values” down each throat.
---------------------
Through the Gunport
Through the bunker-slit — an asshole.
To all vision: sudden death.
“Storm through Ukraine into Europe —
Hammer dogma into heads!”
---------------------
The Blindfold of Themis
The blindfold worn by Themis nowadays
Exists to fool the crowd alone,
For rotten “judges” serve the Dark,
Destroying us by orders thrown.
---------------------
The Blindfold of Themis
Themis wears her blindfold still —
Just a prop for hollow lies.
Rotten judges serve the Darkness,
Crushing lives by dark command disguised.
---------------------
Variations on Vulgar Themes
Variations on stale obscenities — that’s “our great art” today:
Blind and dumb and deaf are we, while the world decays away.
---------------------
Variations on Vulgar Themes
Crude variations — “culture’s peak,” the grand achievement of the age:
Blind, mute fools in rotting cages, wallowing in filth and shame.
---------------------
The Cart Still Hasn’t Moved
“Have a smashing week!”
The social-madness speaks.
Another blow to brains —
The cart still stays the same.
---------------------
The Cart Still Hasn’t Moved
“Super week ahead!”
Social networks spread
More damage to the mind —
The cart stays stuck in time.
---------------------
The War of Sexes
The war of sexes —
You’re prey within its meshes,
If you can’t rise above the game:
Desire keeps fools forever chained.
---------------------
The War of Sexes
The war of sexes.
You’re the catch it presses,
If lust still blinds your inner sight —
Fools sharpen passion into spite.
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Fatality as Watchability
Deadliness means watchability:
“If it wasn’t shown —
Then it never happened!”
Lost in Lies, the world is gone,
Listening to Beastly babble.
Lies rise — a tidal wall.
---------------------
Fatality as Watchability
Fatal things are “viewable.”
If the screen stayed mute —
“It did not exist.”
Worlds drown deep in Lies absolute,
Heeding beasts insane and crude.
Falsehoods surge — a ninth-wave flood.
---------------------
Shatter Every Lie
Destroy the lies that rule the nations,
Burn idols down with scornful flame.
The Spirit of Light will guide your actions,
And enemies shall shake in shame.
---------------------
Shatter Every Lie
Smash every lie that rules the earth,
Let sarcasm reduce idols to ash.
Bright Spirit shall direct your hand —
And foes will tremble at the crash.
---------------------
“Care” Marked with a Star
Those bearing “goodness” should be branded
With some new star, cold and bright.
A green-cross mark upon the forehead —
For “caring ones” in poisoned light.
And media noise like sirens blaring
Unleashed as one relentless stream —
Nothing more terrifying than that —
A world that lives inside a scream.
Those who bring “change” for the masses
Should be cut down without a trial.
That’s what survival now demands
Of this insane and rotting pile.
Through Lies they lead the deformed and broken
To sacrifice with gentle hand —
Just multiply the “care” on time
In this distorted, failing land.
The “doctors” cared in CowID era,
While ruins bore the “Russian world” —
Still preaching “freedom” through the rubble,
With slogans neatly bought and sold.
And every fool believes the nonsense,
The crowd is dull, degraded, torn —
A wretched herd of blind confusion,
By its own madness being born.
---------------------
Pure Souls
Pure are the souls — God’s dwelling places.
But they have thinned in earthly spaces.
So now He drifts, a homeless flame,
In a dull world without a name.
And Darkness bares its grin still wider,
Its shadows crawling ever higher.
---------------------
Pure Souls
Pure souls — the dwelling of the Divine.
So few remain in this age of decline.
Now God’s a drifter in a muted world,
While Darkness’ jaws grow ever curled.
---------------------
David Icke — Strike
David Icke —
A heavy strike:
New Reich rise,
Built on “fear plus lies.”
Clean, precise —
Pins take flight.
---------------------
David Icke — Strike
David Icke —
A crushing strike.
New Reich scheme,
“Fear and dream.”
One sharp blow —
Pins all go.
---------------------
Chasing “Happiness”
He rushes after “happiness” —
And what he finds is this:
A fantasy inside the mind,
In total Lies, a prisoned kind.
---------------------
Chasing “Happiness”
He chases “happiness” ahead —
What waits instead?
A mind-born ghostly masquerade,
In Total Lies — a prison made.
---------------------
Forgetting the World’s Delusion
Forget it all —
And stay within.
There shines the Light
Where truth begins.
Outside — only Lies,
And dread, and gloom,
A hollow grief,
A madman’s room.
---------------------
Forgetting the World’s Delusion
Forget — just be
Within the Light.
Outside: Lies, fear,
And endless night.
---------------------
Home, Son, and Tree All Wither
The home, the son, the ancient tree — all fade,
Bad soil beneath, a rotting shade.
Only compost in the mind they sow,
Stuff it with cotton — and off you go
Again to fight… yourself alone.
---------------------
Home, Son, and Tree All Wither
Home, son, and tree — all sick, all weak,
Poor ground where nothing true can speak.
They stuff the mind with padded lies —
And back to war… with self that dies.
---------------------
Truth for the Few
Truth belongs to only a few —
It demands bold thought, will to break through.
Delusion is the weak ones’ fate,
Countless, crawling, ever in state.
---------------------
Truth for the Few
Truth is rare — it calls for daring,
Thinking deep and fearless staring.
Error is the crowd’s domain,
Endless, dull, and born of strain.
---------------------
Yoga of Liberation
The house is burning — others only stink and stare.
No skin to bear it — shame and pain are everywhere.
If Spirit is not yet exhausted in your core —
Then fly away: this is Hell in CowID’s war.
Masks are removed — but muzzles once were tight;
Only a fool or rogue accepts that blinding night.
Only a slave can bow and call it grace,
Delight in servitude with beastly face.
The house is burning — do not pause to trace
The links, the roots, the global madness’ face.
Don’t study how the lie was forged and made —
Run from it all — escape the masquerade.
If your old house does not yet burn in flame,
Then you are trapped inside a madhouse game.
Acceptance, survival — all this leads in turn
To sacrifice of Mind and Spirit burned.
The burning house — the essence of true yoga’s gate.
But real yogis are not weak or sedate.
Not Hatha, Karma — but the essence pure and free,
Yoga beyond all Lies and Horror’s sea.
---------------------
Like Water off a Goose
Like water off a goose — it slides away,
Again a life with no shame left to stay.
Not life, but endless forced parade,
What’s sown is nonsense, poorly made.
What grows is junk, a hollow shade.
Where’s “NO!!!”? Only “YES” obeys —
Fear, spellbound haze, and herd-like ways.
---------------------
Like Water off a Goose
Like water off a goose it runs,
A sham of life that never comes.
Not life — a bleak and dragging field.
You sow confusion, that’s the yield.
It sprouts as junk, distorted crop.
“No!” is gone — “Yes” won’t stop:
Fear, trance, and herds that never think.
---------------------
Kremlin “Truth”
In truth it’s “SVO,” you see —
Not war, just “special clarity.”
A triumph of the Kremlin beast,
Go die for filth in their last feast.
---------------------
Kremlin “Truth”
It’s “SVO,” they swear — not war,
You must not call it what it’s for.
Kremlin beasts in triumph stand —
March and die for rot and brand.
---------------------
They Lie Like Gods
They lie like gods —
For minds that nod.
For those who think —
They’re hell’s own link.
Grow sharp in mind,
And strike their kind.
---------------------
They Lie Like Gods
They lie like gods
For blinded clods.
For minds awake —
A hellish fake.
So raise your doubt,
And cut them out.
---------------------
The Master of Mass Amusements
A party clown of mass delight,
Stupid, yet “ideologically bright,”
He sows his cheerful optimism wide —
That’s all he knows, that’s all his pride.
---------------------
The Master of Mass Amusements
Mass-entertainment showman,
Stupid but “devoted” foeman,
Spreads his gospel of “be fine” —
That’s his whole and only line.
---------------------
The Measure of Belief in Nonsense
The measure of belief — a “pioneer’s” design:
A careful dose of brainless mind,
So one won’t stray to realms unseen,
But “knowing,” worships earthly grime.
---------------------
The Measure of Belief in Nonsense
Faith measured out in “pioneer” style —
Just enough to dull the mind awhile,
So no one reaches higher spheres,
But bows to chaos masked as “clear.”
---------------------
Carrion of the World
Chains of darkness —
Servile brainless carcass:
Fools in fetters,
“World is ready!”
---------------------
Carrion of the World
Darkness’ chains
On slave-brains:
Fools declare —
“World is there!”
---------------------
Our Faith
Our faith, without a living sign,
Withers away — no proof, no line.
So they need some “acrobat”
Upon the cross — and fools clap back.
---------------------
Our Faith
Our faith without a guiding flame
Withers fast — becomes a name.
So bring an “acrobat” in pain —
On the cross, and cheers again.
---------------------
Don’t Cry or Whine
Don’t cry, don’t whimper, don’t beseech —
This foolish world has got its seat,
A ticket bought to better shows…
But play has fallen into heat —
A total madness on the stage.
---------------------
Don’t Cry or Whine
Don’t cry, don’t beg, don’t whine in pain —
The foolish world has bought its train
To “better shows,” its grand parade —
But now the play is pure charade.
---------------------
Rotten Chaos
You don’t recall the how or why,
But stir the Rot that eats inside —
A stinking pit of lies and fear —
Strive, or you’ll rot like fools who die.
---------------------
Rotten Chaos
You don’t know when, you don’t know how,
But dig that rotten chaos out —
A sewer packed with lies and dread —
Try, or die like fools instead.
---------------------
Endless Football on the Zombie Screen
Nonstop football, endless sport
On zombie-screens — a dull report.
Yet no amount of staged delight
Can stop the booze-fueled, rustic night —
A homemade Hell, authentic, bare,
That clings and rots the poisoned air.
So people crave to blank their mind,
Escape the nonsense they can’t unwind —
The total lies they’re trapped inside,
Where hope and sense have both died.
And “our side’s” win — so vaguely told —
Feels sweeter when it’s soaked in alcohol.
That you are slave is lost in haze —
Just wear a grin through drunken days.
---------------------
The Unstoppable March of Decay
Pure dog’s delirium — nothing less —
Defines this pseudo-life of mess.
And further on, more thickly still,
The mind is eaten by the will
Of slime-like Lies that spread and creep,
Covering rot like icing cheap.
Fake “complexity” then rises,
Masking schemes in thin disguises —
Fabricated grids of power,
Called “law” and “order” in this hour,
So Chaos looks like something planned;
A fool won’t see what’s at hand.
Delusion, fool — the world’s foundation.
They “reform” the old plantation,
Yet slavery returns again,
Disguised as “choice” for mindless men.
And all the slaves, in haze once more,
Repeat the same degraded chore.
In truth, there’s nothing left to save —
Corruption deepens, wave by wave.
Decay has passed its first grim stage —
And moved beyond into full rage…
---------------------
Burrows of the Mind
Burrows
tumble down the hollows —
in their lair
they hide the world’s despair.
All is chaos, all is rot,
hidden deep in mental grot.
But nonsense floods those tunnels tight —
A global flood of endless blight.
---------------------
Burrows of the Mind
Mind-burrows
fall from sorrow.
In their depth
they stash the world’s decay and breath.
Yet Lies will rise and flood them through —
A world-deluge of nonsense too.
---------------------
Pavliks Morozovs and Others…
A murky fraud is held aloft
As model case for all to see.
When “young pioneers” believe
In nonsense — that’s calamity.
---------------------
Pavliks Morozovs and Others…
A murky fool becomes your guide
They raise him up in daily creed.
When “pioneers” believe the lie —
That’s where disaster starts to breed.
---------------------
Food of “Gods”
The “food of gods” — the fools’ despair,
Their harvested emotional snare.
So many broken, dull, and weak —
The “god” grows fat beyond critique.
---------------------
Food of “Gods”
“Gods” feed on grief from foolish minds,
On lowly souls their hunger dines.
So many weak, so many bowed —
The “god” grows bloated in the crowd.
---------------------
The Shoots of Lies
Sprouts of evil — donkey’s trail
Twists through ravines of rotten ground.
Weary traveler finds no bail,
Hope itself has lost its sound
Among the weeds of lies and wreck —
Nothing saves you from the crack.
---------------------
The Shoots of Lies
Evil’s shoots — a donkey’s track
Winds through ravines of broken black.
Tired out, you find no grace —
Hope is lost in ruins’ trace.
---------------------
Rule of Fear
“Moo…” and “baa…” —
“Boo!” in the dark, afar.
In the “mind” —
only reflex confined.
Devil reigns behind…
---------------------
Rule of Fear
“Moo…” “baa…” in fright,
“Boo!” splits the night.
What’s left in the brain?
Only reflex and chain.
The Beast holds the reign…
---------------------
Direct Vision
Fools hide themselves inside the shade —
Where fear and sloth in nonsense fade.
Look through the patterns Evil made
Into Hell’s depth, and cast off shade.
---------------------
Direct Vision
Fools retreat into the night,
Burning slow in dread and spite.
Pierce through evil’s patterned screen —
Face the Hell that lies unseen.
---------------------
Work for the Schemer
A petty job for petty minds —
To bow and crawl for swindler kinds.
Who said this world was fine and fair?
It’s rotten through beyond repair.
---------------------
Work for the Schemer
Small-time work for small-time souls —
To serve the crooks and play their roles.
Who said the world is soft and thin?
It’s sharp with fraud beneath the skin.
---------------------
The Cat’s Reality
A cat’s reality —
Not simple, as can be:
Around him — scum and spite.
Poison him? Yes… or might?
---------------------
The Cat’s Reality
The cat’s own world is never plain —
All round him crawls a mass of strain.
A pack of scum, a poisoned air —
Will they kill him? Yes… or where?
---------------------
Cut All the Ends!
“Life in this world is dull, gentlemen!”
— Nikolai Gogol
So dull, so dull, dear gentlemen —
And never otherwise again.
No space is left for Mind to grow
In this dull heap of human woe.
To think and feel — and still grow bored —
Is fate of those not lying toward
Delusion, dreams, or empty plea,
Nor swallowing insanity.
Does boredom bite like hungry beast?
Then Mind itself is slightly greased —
To breathe is boredom in the dark,
When world denies its poisoned spark.
And if the mind begins to break,
And loneliness feels like a weight —
Then counted are your living days
As one who sees through cloudy haze.
Only the fools declare: “All’s fine.”
Then boredom turns to grief in time —
The fate awaits the thinking one
Like shadow cast from absent sun.
So do not howl — instead create,
Let rage and venom circulate
Into the choking filthy pit —
A fight will wake you up from it.
The pit won’t care — it never does —
But feeling “not just filth” because
Of how you stand against the flow
Can sharpen life’s dull, weary woe.
Some few have cut all ties away —
Those fighters who refuse to stay
Within the rot, and choose to stand
Outside the stench of this command.
So greet your boredom, let it come,
Expect the grief that’s still to come.
Accept not anything you’re shown —
Mind under Spirit stands alone.
The world’s “system” is lawless game —
In whole, just chaos dressed in name.
The Spirit is the final aim,
While fools all strike the same old frame —
They saw the branch they still sit on.
To cut all ties — the foolish shun.
In hell where fools are forged and bred,
Such chains still bind the living dead.
---------------------
Like Water off a Goose
Like water off a goose it slides —
No shame is left in foolish minds.
From wretched life and hollow days
No blush will come, no spark of grace.
---------------------
Like Water off a Goose
Like water off a goose it goes —
No shame the empty-minded knows.
From life so poor, so dull, so base,
No sign of shame will ever trace.
---------------------
Fear, Fascism, and a Torrent of Lies
Fear and fascism — Lies in flood,
Cattle minds grow dull and crude.
Hell has already made its stand —
Smash the nonsense, strike it hard!
---------------------
Fear, Fascism, and a Torrent of Lies
Fear and fascism, lies in spate;
The herd grows dumber, foul, and base.
Hell is here — no need to wait —
Break the lies with fearless rage.
---------------------
Fuel of Light
Spiritual essence —
To hell with all “necessance.”
Burn out each nerve, each chain, each scar —
And first in Light’s own world you are.
---------------------
Fuel of Light
Spirit is the only treasure —
Burn all “need” beyond all measure.
Scorch your nerves to ash and night —
And you’ll be first in realms of Light.
---------------------
Charms Are Cells
Charms are cages —
That’s their wages.
Fascinated,
You’re now caged in.
---------------------
Charms Are Cells
Charms — just cells.
You got spellbound —
Now you dwell
In chains unbound.
---------------------
Alienation as the Core on the Road to the Source
“Among men I hold no friendship dear,
I bowed before another reign.
I’d hang upon each cur’s thick neck right here
My finest tie without restraint.”
— Sergey Yesenin, 1922
Among mankind no bond sustains me —
Since childhood I sought Bedlam’s breach.
If I can reach the Source that claims me,
Then slavery’s pain was not for naught to teach.
The anguish peaks when faith has perished,
When hope is spat on, cast aside,
And half-beast creatures, long-demolished,
Still crawl in Darkness, dumb with pride.
Delusion reigns, blind ignorance thriving —
Without them souls collapse in fright.
Submission to the filth’s surviving;
“The wise” float “above the fight.”
But if excuses all are shattered,
And skinless in the storm you stand,
This pseudo-life no longer flatters —
You’ll see the Butchers rule the land.
The wind blows stench that numbs and poisons;
The gullible help forge the chains.
How crude, grotesque this world’s horizon —
The half-beast fails and fails again:
Learns nothing, drags through life mechanical,
More junk and food into its den.
Around — a Hell abyssal, tangible,
Whipped by Fear and Lies again.
The noise is endless — finding brothers
Is like a needle lost in hay.
The media breeds crippled others,
So change itself is locked away.
Step back from crowds — within you’ll find it,
If ceaselessly you seek the flame.
Throw out the heaps of fraud that blinded
Half-ram minds by fascism tamed.
But first, in Darkness, learn the hardest:
Ask questions no herd dares pursue.
Beyond the mob’s diseased bombardment —
Seek, ask, break through… the Source calls you.
---------------------
The Scaffold of Pseudo-Life
“Safety” will escort you neatly
To your death — believe them sweetly!
Trust the bastards and their “care,”
Built for idiots to bear.
First came self-inflicted terror —
Fascism disguised its error.
Then the plague-wave’s grim baptizing:
Pure satanic mechanizing.
Madness now breaks every measure —
Building camps with digital pleasure.
Red cross blazing on white banners,
Media war inspires the planners.
Politician-clown, obedient lackey —
Fools by Lies grow pale and shaky,
Lies prepared behind the scene.
Media screams: “Obey the machine!”
Plague-time clearly showed the story,
How the mob fell low and gory —
Bent by panic, chained by fright,
Waiting on the block each night
For decrees of false diseases,
New fake wars and slimy “cares.”
Media pours salt on lesions,
Calls it “love” for the despairing masses.
Happy slug — because the slaughter
Will not strike him fast with torture.
Like castration of the Spirit,
Mind decays before you hear it.
Everything for guts means “progress”!
Tighter grows the Beastly process.
Salt of Lies and Fear’s oppression —
Earth’s vast scaffold of suppression.
Everywhere scream “freedom,” “glory”!
Dissenters — monsters in the story.
If Awareness burns too small,
That means all is lost. All.
---------------------
The Tactic of Tiny Cuts
The tactic of tiny incisions
In laughably pitiful days:
The vile rise high through submission,
While dark-minded cattle decay.
They slice at Awareness in classrooms
With violence subtle and thin.
Then slowly they drown you in bloodstreams,
While media babbles of “freedom” within.
Rip through the nonsense of “justice,”
“Constitutions,” “laws” full of lies,
Those books that intoxicate fools and
Keep patches on rot in disguise.
They cut little by little the dreamers,
Then preach their compassion above —
Small bandages pasted on cancers,
And marketed sweetly as “love.”
---------------------
Corrupted Half-Art
“Talents” sold by rates and prices.
Lick the bosses — claim the prizes.
Masters grovel, sleek and swollen,
While a puppet holds the throne.
---------------------
Corrupted Half-Art
“Artists” stamped with market labels.
Bootlick kings at tyrants’ tables.
Bosses lounging, fat and smug —
Clone upon the throne: a thug.
---------------------
Self-Terrorism
“Enemies hide near!”
Now slam that Boeing — steer!
“Release Bin Laden fast!”
Deep State approved the blast!!!
---------------------
Self-Terrorism
“Enemies inside!”
Hit the Boeing — let it ride!
Bin Laden: “Attack!”
Deep State pulling every track!!!
---------------------
The Power of the Word “No”
The power of “No” —
Reject the grand deceit.
Awakening will grow.
That’s Evil’s true defeat.
---------------------
The Power of the Word “No”
The power of “No” —
That’s how delusions die.
Awakening will grow.
Strike Evil eye to eye.
---------------------
The Tautology of Nonsense
More and more
Nonsense we adore —
Call it “happiness,”
Though it’s madness to the core.
---------------------
The Tautology of Nonsense
Ever faster
Into nonsense after nonsense —
Call the madness “bliss,”
While Bedlam swallows all existence.
---------------------
Luxury Bathhouse
Luxury bathing
In this savage shithole’s staging —
“Russian world” in filth is drowned,
Face-first crashing to the ground.
---------------------
Luxury Bathhouse
Luxury sauna,
Mid this wasteland’s foul persona —
“Russian world” has hit the floor,
Rotting at its deepest core.
---------------------
Death
Around — only dull, devouring cattle,
Stinking slave-herds bought and sold;
A shame that drags mankind to ruin,
Pulling the human race down cold.
For one who thinks, no life is possible here,
Nor even a death with dignity’s grace.
What once was hard but still attainable
Now ends in humiliation’s embrace.
Yet there remains a way to shatter
The slaves — and the masters they obey.
That path is neither strange nor hidden;
Only it can burn the chains away.
That path is Fire we call upon ourselves,
To scorch our shame together in one blaze.
Thus honor, Earth, and pride are rescued —
Only this can guard them through the haze.
---------------------
Delirium, “No!!!” and Light
The crowd is right — obey, don’t stray:
agree with it and kneel today.
At ditch’s edge, where cold winds bite,
repent before encroaching Night.
Darkness has swallowed this small world,
a shabby sphere in shadow hurled.
And where the mind is darkened too,
the rules grow hard, unkind, and true.
War, CowID — a global cage,
the crowd sees banners, not the rage.
They do not see what flags conceal —
a branded lie they call “the real”.
The crowd will crush, with fear and spite,
the last small scraps of inner light.
A calculation cold and grim:
the stupid grip will finish him.
Through media they plant their “care”,
a rotten slave learns how to bear.
A quota stamped on lies is sold —
who rules the world? The same old mold.
War plus toil — a world made blunt,
a butcher’s blade in daily hunt.
And plagues to follow, line by line,
propping the war machine’s design.
Not life — but death on installment plans,
in rabbit holes where nothing stands.
Shame has flooded every door,
and fools scurry like mice on the floor.
Life turns into a verdict sealed,
defense of skin — the only shield.
A reflex bred in panic’s fire,
emotional spikes climb ever higher.
The slave-built order flexes tight,
a press of lies that crushes sight.
And soon the world is void, undone,
its mass collapsing into none.
Within that void, a slave is dust,
no mind, no will, no inner trust.
Reason itself lies drugged, in coma,
a hollow dream of social trauma.
To Darkness shout your “No!!!” and stand —
with mind and conscience in your hand.
Or mind and spirit, burning bright —
either works against the night.
This total madness ends its tale:
“Nothing” returns to what is stale.
Through bardo’s gate, beyond the wall,
to primal Spirit, root of all.
And he who shouted “No!!!” alone
still guards a spark the dark won’t own.
---------------------
Bucha. The sick “Russian world”
Bucha — the rabid “Russian world” hurled,
Ukraine a shooting range unfurled.
Only “bonds” strike deeper core,
the slave grows mad and vile once more.
---------------------
“Eternal Questions”
The “Yank” — a crooked, twisted frame,
a verbal flood of filth and flame.
A mind that cracks and flies apart,
a lie dressed up as “deep” and smart…
---------------------
Gangrene of Betrayal
Gangrene of treason, rotting vein,
“Change!” — the chant they fling again.
Escape from chains? A hollow theme —
replacing people… with a dream.
Replacing what? With what design?
Nothing for NOTHING — line by line?
Sweet oil poured through riddled steel,
clogged and foul — none of it real!
---------------------
Super Guinness
Eternal records held by brute-faced throng,
who stretch the night and keep it long.
No single spark breaks through the haze and dread,
just endless dark, and madness, words half-dead.
---------------------
Mouth-flapping Europe, hollow speech,
and brute-made empires out of reach.
The world — a grotesque, warped display,
where power turns to filth and sway.
---------------------
Geese and swans in flight
Geese and swans are on the wing,
leaving here the hellish ring.
To the southern hell they steer —
same old cycle, same old sphere.
Nothing really shifts or bends,
only where the torment ends —
one inferno fades from view,
another waits, already due.
---------------------
The Majesty of the Soul
The Majesty of Prophecy,
a diagnosis of the crowd—
it grants the gift of solitude
to slaves gone mad, unbowed.
They cannot hear the Voice of Mind—
it’s drowned in fear and lie;
by war and false contagion pressed,
decay is piled up high.
That decay is called “society,”
and crawling things in chains
are praised as “majesty” and rule—
while fools accept the claims.
They take loud power, wealth, and noise
as proof of “heights” above;
and rot is driven toward the void
by beasts that call it love.
Today the chosen “final aim”
is dressed in shining guise—
like “communism” once was sold
through smoke of twisted lies.
Again the media churn their fog,
the world is ruled by strain;
a fascist shape, now soft-disguised,
governs the global game—
“Care” as its mask, and other tricks
to soothe the blinded mind;
born in a madhouse full of sin,
it keeps the sick confined.
And only rare ones break the spell—
they sense the higher tone;
the slave-built world strikes true at them—
for herd rejects the Throne.
Who endures and finds his voice,
and carries inner flame,
will find the Real within the heart—
not chaos, not mere name.
To Majesty he rises then,
and flies through darkness’ gate;
a weary soul becomes aligned
with Light that does not fade.
So much of darkness fills the mind—
a madhouse residue:
parents, schools, and books alike
once fed the mind with glue.
And systems of coercive rule
left scars that still remain.
Lift up your Voice above the night—
not all in Hell are chain.
We do not hear the rare ones call,
yet heights still hear their sound;
strike foulness clean, without a bow
to what drags spirit down.
Perhaps in this you’ll reach the Source,
and cross the burning skies—
if you can root out from your mind
the delusion that lies.
---------------------
To Earn a Living as a Poet
To earn as a writer or poet before
was hard—today it’s simply “no way” at all,
unless you bow to the World’s big Bird of War,
and praise the global mess as it stands in its fall.
---------------------
Caste — Paste
Caste is paste, it stains the brow,
smearing mark of “order” now.
Trickier the brute and sly—
he climbs a little higher sky.
Lower down, the silence grows,
whispers where the darkness flows.
And for shudras life’s a tomb—
sealed inside a rigid room.
---------------------
Barb and Blight
Barb and vulgar rot and craze,
bitter jokes in crooked ways—
humor, irony, sharp sting—
all are branded, anything.
“Orders” barked from beastly throat,
every lie they freely vote.
And your refusal of the dark
splits the cage with a single spark—
a crack in fate, a thin escape,
where a slave may break his shape.
---------------------
Files on the Political Clowns
The vetted rogues are ushered in
to play their voting game again.
Their “dirt files” aren’t made for show—
they trade them like a scripted flow.
---------------------
False Extraction
A well is drilled, the system set—
and minds begin to leak and sweat.
In place of truth, a flood of lies,
the ruined Earth in sickness lies.
The living Gaia turns to rust—
a heavy sleep, a mind of dust.
---------------------
Cannibals
If you don’t feast on someone’s fate,
you’ll be the next one on the plate
of strangers—so don’t waste your breath
on conscience now, it’s “out of date.”
No room for nerves, no time for pain—
the rule is cold, the rule is plain:
you eat, or you become the prey
in this new civilized decay.
---------------------
Measure of Faith
How much can one be made to take—
a pioneer of lies they make—
so nonsense turns, with slimy art,
to pseudo-life’s decaying chart?
A rhetorical, bitter sound—
a flood of words that drown and pound:
the signal flickers through the haze—
war and CowID mark the days.
The gauge is set. The bottom’s found.
---------------------
Dead Meat, Foolish Rite
Rotten folly, hollow breed—
Hell has dressed itself in creed.
“Real men,” they loudly proclaim,
lost in fear and lies and shame.
Truth is drowned in fevered sound,
madness wears a badge profound.
---------------------
Not Barriers, but Overton’s Frame
Not barriers—but Overton’s frame
that warps a foolish world’s own game.
Step by step, the slow decay
pushes all resistance away.
A gradual flood, a rising tide—
of filth the system cannot hide.
And in the end, what once was low
becomes the norm the masses know.
Now “St. Sterquilinus” is crowned—
lord of the mess that spreads around.
In this dim and wretched age,
this rot is called a “higher stage.”
They label fall as “progress bright,”
and call descent a kind of light.
The stupid herd is led by lies—
while pressure mounts in endless rise.
---------------------
Customs of Total, Age-Old Slavery
“People never feel remorse for acts that have become their custom.”
— Voltaire
Into custom we will pour
obedience and shame once more.
Cruelty we’ll write as law,
and absurdity as awe.
Betrayal will be “daily work,”
a normal role for those who lurk.
And idiots will set the tone—
the template of a world of stone.
Through Overton’s expanding door
we stretch the bounds of moral sore.
What once was seen as foul and wrong
becomes accepted all along.
We teach the young to swallow grime
as simply “how it is in time.”
We print our books with polished lies
where every crook becomes “wise.”
Through media we drown the mind
in fear—yet claim it’s “all aligned.”
They say: “This is how life goes on,”
in giant filth we all are drawn—
like squirrels spinning in a wheel,
while nothing here is truly real.
School becomes a factory line
where obedience is design.
A tolerant, all-consuming beast
is now the “citizen” at least.
And life itself grows infernal—
spines bent down, foreverernal.
But everywhere: “it’s just the way,”
so bend your head and do not stray.
The bully-state becomes the norm—
submit, conform, accept the storm.
Violence has its visible line,
but chaos rules where norms decline.
They bind the slaves with skillful hand—
and call it “order in the land.”
So bold is truth—no tyrant’s might
can finish off what burns as right.
The crowd is blind, yet claims it’s proud—
a mask the slave wears in the crowd.
So common are these worn-out roles,
it’s hard to find unbroken souls.
All wait for manna from the skies—
while normality decays and lies.
We’ll wait for catastrophe’s tread—
it isn’t far from what’s ahead.
Fascism swells within the frame—
and nature bears the rising shame.
The sun burns stronger overhead,
while global silence stays in bed.
And in the end, the reckoning calls
on every fool who built these walls.
---------------------
The First Step
The burning-out of patterns old
that shape the mind, both meek and cold,
and so-called “natural” laws that bind
the world of darkness, fear, and mind—
of sums and shadows, doubt and glare,
of “knowledge” poisoned in the air,
opinions, errors dressed as truth,
and “safe” ambitions crushing youth—
that push the crowd down to its knees
in comfort wrapped in guarantees,
and all the other waste and strain
of intellect’s self-made chain—
at the final edge, the plunge
into the “abyss” where thoughts unspool—
“I’ll vanish now, for good,” the fear,
that holds the soul and keeps it near.
This path is few can walk or see:
what remains is clarity—
pure Spirit, unbent, unbribed, unmade,
that cannot fade or be delayed.
It answers back as resonance,
a silent, inner, sharp response.
The road to Source is tuned by sound
that passes through the rot around—
through poisonous fog of fading worlds,
where truth in execution swirls,
a scaffold built of lies and blame
for fools who never see the game.
Go inward—seek the primal Flame
through resonance, without a name.
Alone, your judge, your witness, guide,
no shelter left to run or hide.
And in that realm of inner night
you shorten sentence through your flight.
The first step is a breaking storm—
despair that shatters all its form.
Or else the phantoms hold you still,
and darkness bends you to its will.
---------------------
Song of the Epic Fools
The one “inside the tank” is there,
in fur hat, wired ears to wear.
Once wounded, half-alive, half-blind—
now noise is all that fills his mind.
Like gas, the lies through headphones creep,
they poison spirit, thought, and sleep.
And “tank-men” now are walking dead—
that’s what the latest falsehoods said.
We sing a song of foolish days,
of those who’ve gone their silent ways,
with heavy praise and bitter tone—
like heroes carved from ancient stone.
For fools once wore a kind of “honor,”
defending twists the system conjured.
They served distortion, rage, and spite,
and called their blindness “truth and light.”
They took the scraps from richer hands,
the bones that fell from ruling stands.
But now they’ve sunk below the floor—
the walking dead can feel no more.
The state’s old signal—just a cue
to chase the money flowing through.
In “red zones” all restraint is gone,
the dirty trade keeps rolling on.
More poison injected, more for sale,
for war has turned the world wholesale.
A crowd of brutes in tighter rows—
and up the price of madness goes.
Once they would die for “higher cause,”
for “homeland,” under noble laws.
The fool would charge with lifted head,
fed on bright lies that never bled.
There once was hope he might grow wise—
but now the dead fill earth and skies.
They are the boil upon the ground,
where chaos grows without a sound.
And every day the infection swells,
while media spreads its toxic spells.
It leaks through headphones, thick and loud—
a stench that gathers in the crowd.
But healing comes: the Sun grows near,
an ever-sharpening engineer.
As doctor, fire, it burns the blight—
and answers evil with its light.
It will evaporate the rot,
erase the stain the world has got.
---------------------
Border Guards, Hold the Line
Border guards, stand firm and tight—
messengers are flying in
from somewhere not of here, to spin
their tale: the human world is grim.
---------------------
“Rulers,” or the Tribe of Hell
Guchkov is harsh. Stolypin sly.
But now they lie a deeper lie.
And all is vain, no matter why—
you’ll still be ground to dust to die.
At any hour, at any time,
the tribe of Hell erases rhyme.
And fear keeps striking at your mind—
relentless, deaf, and well-designed.
---------------------
Pre-Cave Pseudo-Life, Built on Faith in Pure Nonsense
Our belief is not a phantom—
evil rules the “pioneer” mob,
through excess of fear and fraud
that drags them closer to the cave they trod.
Not far from primal cavern’s gate
the hypocrites now congregate.
Their masks have fused with rot and grime—
examples carved in decay and time.
All measures fall to beastly scale—
the fools who play the simple tale
are marked by fate: the dullard’s track,
where reason slowly slides to black.
He dreams of gain, of easy score,
yet stumbles deeper than before—
in fear and lies he breaks his soul,
until it vanishes as whole.
Thoughts reduced to scattered dust,
the spirit penned, consumed by rust.
And Satan sits upon the throne,
as “chosen” fools are duly shown.
They pick the servants of deceit
to fool the crowds they aim to cheat.
Then opens wide the Cave once more—
Hell’s very jaw, an ancient door.
No metaphor—no empty claim:
decay becomes the ruling frame.
Downward it spreads without a break,
until the air begins to shake.
And soon the sulfur scent will rise—
the road below is no disguise.
Once taken, it won’t turn around—
only deeper toward the ground.
---------------------
Half-Price Sale
At half-price now, on every screen,
we’re sold the icons of the fiend.
They shape the image of this world—
a lie’s execution board unfurled.
---------------------
Propaganda Clowns
A hollow shell, a rotten tone—
the spirit driven far and gone
by megatons of verbal sludge
that makes all clarity just fudge.
And in that gloom, that heavy dread,
a weary mind turns dull and dead.
---------------------
Away with Emotions of Decay
Away with emotions of falling apart!
Rebuild the branches, a different art.
Half-creature perceptions, warped and stained,
are not for the Pure Spirit to be retained.
---------------------
Pseudo-Life as Punishment
A cabinet of curiosities—chimera’s hand
grabs the pioneer and drags him through the land.
And onward goes a life imposed as measure and command…
---------------------
Emptiness Is Not for Naught
This emptiness is not by chance—
for “beauty,” dressed in fraud’s romance,
deceives a world of dull-eyed herd
that swallows every empty word.
La-la-la… it fades away—
sound dissolves and will not stay.
---------------------
The Path
I’ll pass straight through the Void ahead—
no order suits my stride or thread.
I scorn the “simple” hollow way,
where cheap corruption holds its sway.
I’ll reach some point—somewhere, somehow.
The only goal is “out of now.”
A comfy world suits cattle best—
for seekers, it is empty jest.
Not in the cycles born of wrong
do I expect my fate or song.
I spit upon what fate may be—
I was born where slavery
is called by names like “freedom,” bright,
yet rots beneath a poisoned light.
In verse itself no use I see—
chaos awaits, not destiny.
So let the world’s decrees be dust—
I move ahead because I must.
The fool’s assigned and common role:
to turn into a grazing soul.
Through Void I wish to reach the Source—
no turning back, no other course.
My only vow, my only art:
keep moving on—FLY, burst apart.
---------------------
“Rashka: Porridge of Lies”
A porridge fed to children’s minds—
sweet lies in early years it binds.
They grow, and truth turns sharp and thin,
becoming louder, thick with sin.
So eat the scraps they throw your way—
and smile as night replaces day.
---------------------
Recidivists of the Word
Recidivists of language,
lie returns in changing anguish—
shifting tone and shifting skin,
feeding depths of endless sin.
For that abyss, the loud announcer
is the criminal, the fraud, the pouncer.
Buried under heaps of lie
the poor world learns to rot and die.
A few remain of real resistance—
those who haven’t lost persistence
to smash the echoes of decay
and nail each new false “leader” in its day—
with words of clarity unbending,
truth sharp enough for laws amending.
The names keep changing, masks rotate
for fascist rot that rules the state—
that turns the crowd into a herd,
deforming mind and killing word.
In many lands the beast has grown—
and celebration takes its throne.
But speech itself still casts its glare
on foolish mobs grown dull and bare.
The mask revealed to common eyes
shows how the ninth wave of lies
transforms a man into a beast.
Yet recidivists increase—
they meet each surge with verbal fire,
then pause… and strike again, still higher.
Recidivists of the Word,
though bound within a world absurd,
keep shaking darkness in the air,
tearing rot from everywhere.
You will not win the final game,
but spirit saves you all the same—
for spirit values only spark,
and breaking free from filth and dark.
---------------------
Sovereignty of Spirit
The Spirit’s rule is self-declared—
the rest is noise, a life impaired.
A pseudo-world of hollow pain,
if you believe the dark’s refrain.
---------------------
Land of Hired Hands
A land of mercenaries, lawmen bought,
and blind believers in a “little czar” they’ve caught.
Fear and lies outmatch each chain—
stronger than iron in the brain.
Hope is only for those who sleep—
the foolish ones who still believe.
---------------------
Cockroach Civilization
Cucaracha—lucky day,
found some rotten scraps to prey.
But the further it goes on,
more they poison, more is gone—
fear alone now drains the core,
weakening life down to the floor.
Life beneath the baseboard’s line
turns into a living sign
of a nightmare set in grime—
youth is dull and out of time,
lost in waves of chemical rain,
stupid, shaken, numb with pain.
Time to crawl toward the dump—
fences there might save the lump.
Cockroaches were strong before—
now they tremble, weak and poor.
Once they said: “No fire, no doom
can erase us from the room.”
But fear is stronger than the myth—
even born-to-rotten shift
grows more dull with every turn,
as their instincts twist and burn.
Stupor, panic, slow decay—
cockroach world is fading grey.
Where is “civilization” now?
No reply—just noise and plough
of words that spew a poisoned stream,
killing off the final dream.
Off to the dump—en masse, as one,
or the end has already begun.
---------------------
“A Kind of Homeland”
A giant loaf, a stolen prize—
a Judas’ heaven for their lies.
Grab more, don’t hesitate or wait,
and drown the protest in its fate.
---------------------
Total, Centuries-Old Deceit
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
In relaxed haze,
noise of chatter—
truth dissolves in
rotting matter.
Honest voices
fade to zero—
crowds of hollow
“normal” people.
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
Few remain now
truly thinking—
generations
slowly sinking.
Lie becomes a
hidden poison—
decay expands,
slow corrosion.
Degradation—centuries long:
easier rule where minds are wrong.
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
Spirit rises—
threat is near now.
“Everything’s fine,”
says the fool now.
World without it
turns to ashes,
staged disasters,
painted crashes.
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
Through engineered
false calamity,
evil nears its
final victory.
Total falsehood—weapon made
for dull minds that never wade.
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
No bright future,
no tomorrow—
years ahead are
filled with sorrow.
Mind and honor,
spirit, conscience—
all are crushed by
dark indulgence.
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
Next awaits us
real cremation—
light will hasten
termination.
Sunlight burning
like an omen—
turns the ending
into motion.
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
Into light-world
those who stayed clear,
not surrendered
to the fear.
All the others—
final fraction:
judged and broken
by degradation.
Ears grow tired,
souls keep moaning,
thoughts are choking,
all is doomed—
lies resume!
---------------------
Controlling Myths
Fairy tale ; a painted mask,
following the given task.
Nonsense ; muzzle, locked and tight,
then a helmet for the night.
Crowds of fools,
sold and ruled—
a drifting herd that’s bought and schooled.
In the future—cattle line,
few remain who aren’t deformed inside the mind of night.
---------------------
Corks in the Current
Like corks they drift—obedient, numb,
too dull to question what will come.
The pressure of the crafted word,
relentless, slick, but never heard
as false—just aimed with perfect sight
by ruling hands that bend the light.
Believe… and you will start to turn—
a beast is what you’ll slowly earn.
---------------------
Half-Shadows
Half-street, half-shadows—endless carousel,
a spinning madness nobody escapes.
If sloth were less, I know too well,
I’d split with laughter at these comic apes.
I’d laugh until I nearly lost my breath
at fools of every possible design.
No longer men—half-demons underneath,
with empty minds and nothing to define.
No longer world—just a stable set in line,
with feeding troughs arranged in endless rows.
In every trough a brew of lies for wine,
and man a docile beast that blindly goes.
He yields to orders from inhuman pride,
by shameless masters grown too bold and wide.
The herd-instinct within him holds his mind,
and he is happy—blindly, fully blind.
That fate is slaughterhouse where all obey,
we march in rhythm, never turn away.
We all deserve it—this is closing time,
the final steps that lead us to the end of line.
---------------------
Fairy Tale
Once again the old tale is replayed,
where lies are the backbone of all that exists.
And all still believe in the mask that is made
to hide the devourer who tightens his fists.
Only trolls and small dwarves populate that land,
while goblins in power keep tormenting them all.
It’s a fairground of targets—pre-set, well-planned,
where reward is a trinket for hitting the wall.
Those trinkets are simple, for dwarves have no yearning
to question or strain what their nature became.
Together they form one obedient turning—
a herd in perfection, conditioned by name.
Now the Goblin grows busy with slaughter and sorting,
declaring the dwarves as redundant and weak.
So the dull little dwarves go in rows without questioning,
to “deal with it later”—no reason to speak.
For the dwarf truly thinks the Goblin is caring,
that sleepless concern keeps him guarding their fate.
He doesn’t suspect what the needle is wearing—
a year of submission that arrives far too late.
---------------------
Pseudo-Science
Pseudo-science—
a cunning device,
where circles of silence and mutual vice
cut deeper than ordinary strife.
Half-truths
crawl like cockroaches into each ear,
and yet
even old lies eventually tear:
The chain
of deception will snap at its strongest seam.
Remain—
for the crash that follows will shatter the dream.
A shame
that it served every fascist machine,
and the name
of false “pandemic” has poisoned the scene.
This is judgment—no metaphor, no disguise,
and hanging is barely the minimum price.
For this is not error, not fraud, not debate—
but organized terror the past cannot rate.
---------------------
Algorithms of Evil
Everywhere, forever—algorithms reign,
in the age of machines they overflow the frame.
They pin down both honour, reason, and flame,
and spirit in herds is almost slain.
Algorithms of locking the mind
into cages built from fear.
Then lies arrive to finish the bind—
the world a pen, the mind disappears.
Unless the Spirit seeks a way
to bend the weak obedient mind,
through eternal questions it may
find exit from the herd-defined.
Childhood’s brief hell: all hopes collide
with daily grind and crushing norm.
School becomes a force of blind pride—
the ignorant forging labour’s storm.
The compass of Spirit is twisted, obscured,
by lies and noise that seep inside.
And fear becomes easily secured—
the fools are guided like a tide.
The media rush like a well-oiled chain
of programmed dullness into each home.
And soon submission spreads through the brain—
the human reduced to passive foam.
Algorithms of obedience rise
and replace what little thought remains.
When the herd is fed and hypnotized,
the burden falls on solitary brains.
That burden crushes, drains and breaks,
robbing strength and blurring the way.
Few remain who still can wake
and walk through filth without delay.
Into the unknown—destroying deceit,
watching in awe how the cattle obey
rottenness dressed as a system complete,
marching in silence, decay by decay.
Rot and stench and ash ahead,
a digital pen on the horizon calls.
Move forward—leave the herds instead,
life is motion beyond their walls.
Few are left who are not erased—
the chaos is mostly doomed and spent.
But in the surge, the Spirit is raised,
alive amid the assault of intent.
---------------------
American “Paradise”
For trivial things—draconian time,
a sentence sharp, absurd, extreme.
In “paradise”? No—ditch of grime,
where guilt is shaped like pre-set scheme,
accuse, then grind you to a dreamless seam.
---------------------
Balance Sheet of PLC “Global Bedlam”
Feelings, thoughts—already curdled,
nerves hang loose in empty air.
Now compute the final burden
if you still can make it there.
But the balance won’t align:
on the asset side—decline,
decadence in every column,
spirit crucified and solemn.
All the chartered capital
vanished through the fog of night.
Ignorance took all in toll—
fear and baseness piled in spite.
Lies are stockpiled as reserve,
once again a nerve is severed.
Busy assets twist and swerve,
liabilities turned to cinder, never.
World is dust—just add a trace
of total lie, reduce the claim,
and the books will find their place—
Satan waits to cash the same.
---------------------
Beyond Structure, Out of “Culture”
Beyond all structure, out of “culture,”
beyond the glitter, noise, and lore,
I flirt with Void—no grand instructor—
as freedom from the endless chore
of nonsense ruling mad existence,
too loud with dogma, stiff and grim.
A step into “NO-THING” is resistance—
a breach that snaps the rigid limb.
---------------------
Timelessness into Beyond-Time
Out of timelessness—beyond all time,
the playful meaning of a nested rhyme.
Begin the turning, break the claim
of being fixed as “you” by name.
A knot of lucid waking light
until the “end of time” in sight,
becoming once again that core—
if mind is strong, it holds the door.
---------------------
Into Non-Distinction Fell
Into non-distinction’s depth
a stubborn yogi lost his breath.
“He’s gone insane, the fool is done,”
the people say as if they’ve won,
and call his stillness empty trance—
interpreting by ignorance.
---------------------
Beyond the Field of Knowing
Beyond the “field of knowledge,” mind and frame,
a poem writes itself—no author, name.
No subject stands to push from what is seen,
no object serves as starting line or screen.
The Void composes—wordless, clear, and wide,
without a grip on either form or guide.
A near-divine, disarming simple state…
almost too pure for thought to contemplate.
---------------------
Beyond Division
Beyond all splits, all lines of sight,
before Creation’s first begun,
the Poet shaped primordial light
in rhythm—wordless, as the One.
No speech, no sign, no borrowed flame—
yet still a pulse that formed the flow.
Some say it poured through radiance,
a light that only light can know.
---------------------
The World as a Puppet Fair
A puppet world—split piece by piece,
a fairground spun from lies and fleece.
It blinds the eye, it breaks the sense:
lie, bread, and flags as recompense.
Emblems and creeds in tow behind,
and fear is chained into the mind.
Your home becomes a sealed-up crypt—
a madhouse-Sodom, tightly gripped.
Is this the world—or evil’s stall?
A free “gift cheese” for those who fall.
A trap of brittle, empty bonds,
a shooting range for hollow minds.
Part filth, part order, “truth” defined—
all serving rot within the mind.
It feeds on sludge, it bows to grime,
and calls it “good” from time to time.
The fairground drags you from your youth—
“Do good!” it sings its captive truth.
A lure with plenty on the hook,
where crowds obey the painted book.
They rush with “soul” into the grind,
into the fight the system signed.
But “good” becomes a hidden worm—
a mask where deeper evils churn.
“Good” underneath the rule of night?
Then one must lose both sense and sight.
To swallow lies and call it life—
to rot in fear, decay, and strife.
---------------------
The Tree Has Gone Mad
The tree has slipped into despair:
a flood of mental filth is there,
concealing unity of leaf and limb—
a sickness spreading cold and grim.
They graft their madness branch by branch,
a ritual of blind avalanche—
not into roots, but outward spread,
where poisoned thoughts are force-fed.
Answer with instinct, raw and true,
that something deeper runs through you—
that unity will rise once more
through what they split and then ignore.
---------------------
Zen Matryoshka
Zen matryoshka—halt and still,
where form dissolves against all will.
No shape remains, no thing to hold—
just sharpened sense, both fierce and bold.
Go inward—deeper, through the seam,
straight into “NOTHING,” like a dream.
And “NOTHING” flickers into “SOMETHING,” bright,
then later ALL, in boundless light.
All distinction fades away—
that field is not your “hell” or “heaven’s day.”
---------------------
The Woodcutter
The woodcutter is not for play—
he cuts all dry and dead away.
But success can turn to fear:
too many stumps still linger here.
The stump—just dull and common folk,
the branches only make-believe.
You strike them down, yet stay bespoke
in futility you can’t retrieve.
You fill the forest like a store,
yet nothing truly changes more.
---------------------
Injected “Meanings”
Injected meanings—spun and sly,
a substitution passing by—
it veils reality in haze,
and blinds the real in twisted ways.
“Real” becomes infernal ground,
while truth is something never found.
Reality and “real” divide
like living truth and fatal side.
Through lies the soul is slowly slain,
the mind decays in sticky pain.
A creeping fear becomes the law—
and “real” is just an executioner’s saw.
---------------------
Maps of Anti-Landscape
Countless they are—these charts of “what is,”
sketching whatever existence is.
But what comes before the act of “is” and name?
The mind, in daring search, still plays the game,
risking its reason, redrawing the frame,
discarding “reality” as too small a claim.
And all those maps dissolve into the same—
they vanish into emptiness, lost in the flame.
---------------------
M;bius Strip
The vector rushed too far, too fast,
and struck the wall of Unknown vast.
But did not break, did not collapse—
it twisted form and changed its maps.
Becoming band without an end,
a loop where beginnings blend.
So cycle lives, unbroken still—
a curve that bends against all will.
---------------------
Mooing Is Not Silence
A lowing sound is not the same as silence,
when it is not the mind’s collapse to wildness—
but thought that comes before all speech is born,
before the word, before the tongue is worn.
That is the path not taken by the dull—
the way of one who keeps the inner pull.
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The Obsessive Signal of Global Nonsense
I fell into the sea of trash—
the signal died in mental crash.
It turned to non-knowledge in the fall,
as madness builds its global wall.
A flood of “knowledge,” overblown—
a many-headed idiot throne.
---------------------
Direction of Motion
Piccadilly—once we strolled,
buying trinkets, cheap and sold.
“Paradise,” we proudly told—
fools afloat in glittered mould.
We sailed there through a raging storm,
forgetting vector, form, and norm.
The current took our chosen way—
and left no compass in the spray.
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Abscess and Surge
Prana is turned to fear again—
the law of worlds where sacred men
have horned-up gods, and humans stand
half-devil, half-broken land.
Spirit and fear?—no union here!
Yet in this fog of lies and smear
the earthly chaos drags them low,
beneath the blows of terror’s flow.
Forced to “fold the robes of mind,”
the world collapses, left behind,
downward it rolls—this “progress” grand,
when hidden demons take command.
Fear feeds the beast, and so it grows—
no room for soul or thought that knows.
Only blind worship of decay,
of “science-gods” and hollow sway.
A homo-doberman appears—
citizen made of engineered fears.
War and plague have made it clear
how far the species fell from here.
The last remains stand in line,
at counters begging for a sign—
a handout tossed by cruel design,
to rot inside the mental mine.
The final stage of processing—
no middle ground, no lingering:
either become the herd, or flee
and break the cage to set soul free.
But how to run?—the mind must strain,
and ego must become the flame,
a surge instead of festering pain—
though born as abscess all the same.
Press on it hard—ignore the sting—
and turn the boil into a wing.
---------------------
On Dishwashing
In memory of Marina Tsvetaeva
“In a dying gasp I’ll still remain a poet…”
Years have passed. In Yelabuga—summer quiet.
Sergei to execution. Ariadna in prison.
War again. Russia once more in blood and poison.
The dishes pile up—yet sickness comes near.
Naive young hearts still measure it clear:
if you are gifted, then life will go right.
But the world answers differently—cold, out of sight.
It gasps in its final, suffocating breath—
the law of decay, of fear, and of death.
The Poet looks upward—snare is already set:
respectable faces, but empty as yet.
Citizens turn to fetters and chains—
live if you wish, but accept all the stains.
Bow down, stay silent, approve what you’re told,
or praise the madhouse as kingdom of gold.
The question is burning—when, how to write?
Serve the Bedlam and dim your own light,
or spit on the dishes, save Psyche instead
through word like a flame—though the alternative’s death.
Storm the porcelain shop like an elephant blind,
O Poet—smash through the “art” they design.
Or else they will pour into every clean bowl
a soup of excrement—no trace of the soul.
---------------------
Society of Spectacle
Under the heel of the pentacle’s glare,
the world rolls downward—beyond repair—
into absurdity, cold and steep:
friend today is herd to keep.
---------------------
The Poet’s Solitude
Word is friend—
no need to bend.
Crowds around:
fools unbound.
In a world of lies and fraud,
the fool is enemy and god—
first to strike, yet never strong,
but carried by the lying throng.
Majority, with tricksters high,
press down the living truth—and why?
The spirit handed out for trade,
for trinkets cheaply overplayed.
A storm of “brakes” is closing in—
a gentle death beneath the din,
when reason slowly fades away
and night replaces every day.
---------------------
Experience Drowns You
Experience drags you down below—
you’ll end up sunk in shit and snow,
unless you find it on your own
what life is really built upon.
Forget the paths the masses preach—
they’re empty noise beyond your reach.
Just fall into the Abyss instead—
and shut the endless chatter dead.
---------------------
False Dualism: Predator and Prey
No seizure—only second role,
no real escape, no other goal.
A world that claims there is no key,
no third path, no alternative.
And soullessness is what you pay,
the price you give for blind delay.
The only exit—firm and deep—
let rooted mind in Heart now keep,
and be to lies and gold untrue,
beyond the game they sell as “you.”
---------------------
On “Positivity”
Positivity—like an abscess grown,
a bursting mass of ignorance shown,
where pus of mind and spirit drains,
and feeds obedient, vacant brains.
The docile fool accepts the swarm,
a rotting crowd in “human form,”
and calls it “neighbors,” warm and kind,
while books of every shade of mind—
soft, harsh, refined, or sharply dressed—
all dress decay in fine protest.
Generations soaked in fear,
in lies that multiply each year.
And what is called “salvation” here?
Just “positivity”—held dear.
You rot with it, content, serene,
and call that rot a living dream.
Yet few can see the funeral rite—
of mind, of freedom, inner light.
Listen to soul, not hired deceit,
don’t be the thing on sale, complete,
like all who spin within the wheel—
hamsters grinding what they feel,
finishing off what mind remains,
then calling Hell their home again.
Pessimism, bitter sight,
sarcasm sharp as toxic light—
these cut the lie, expose the show,
and strip the nonsense down below.
Onward—through “failures” re-run twice,
the herd that falls, yet pays the price,
digging down through shame and loss,
and falling further past the cross.
Strive upward—toward the Source’s flame,
not downward into rot and shame.
---------------------
Poetry of Space
The poetry of open space,
beyond this filthy human place—
where mind divides and splits apart,
and kills the whole it should impart.
Spiritual unity remains,
while all else drags through dirt and chains.
The foolish mind will never see—
it only is what it must be.
---------------------
Rating Is Everything
Rating is all. Meaning is none.
And more absurdity is yet to come.
Minds today are sieves and dust—
leaking thought as holes adjust.
For now it’s holes that do the talking,
gluing eras while they’re rotting.
---------------------
Bastard World
A bastard world—
a shooting range for Spirit’s aim.
Reason orphaned, stripped of name.
Fools get cheese inside the trap—
life reduced to staged mishap.
Tricks and snares on every side,
where “reform” is cattle ride.
Where the path to change and shift
turns the mind into a drift
toward herd-conditioned state of dust:
busyness, “simplicity,” and trust—
emptiness in holy guise,
and scum that disappears in skies…
straight into the void, no more,
lost beyond the final door.
---------------------
Happiness in Hell?
“Happiness in Hell?”—what dazed command,
in what delirium does it stand?
Blow on your own little flute and pray,
and listen to nonsense all the way,
fit only for the herd’s decay…
---------------------
A Full Stop in the Line
A full stop in the line—oblivion’s stake,
like aspen wood through memory’s wake.
In lies, a poison slowly feeds,
corroding system, rot that breeds.
Be glad to break what once was spun—
what “was,” what “is,” and what’s to come…
---------------------
Fierce Poet
A fierce, unyielding poet stands—
Lie, Fear, and Madness rule the lands.
Absurdity is everywhere.
The answer? A verse-flung “NO!” in air—
a cry that rips the silent veil.
Then hush… and nonsense follows, pale.
---------------------
Pharma Mafia Dealers
Garlic—once the remedy known,
for countless ailments long outgrown.
Old recipes were passed like flame
from those who cared, not those for fame.
But now the doctor is no friend—
a dealer serving crime’s own end.
Too greedy, dull, without restraint,
with talent lost and judgment faint.
Rare exceptions fade from view,
as reason itself dissolves there too.
So do not wait for healing hand
from those who serve a fascist brand.
They inject poison, stage the cure,
lead sheep to slaughter, calm and pure.
A rotten crew, both bold and vast—
genocide walks with them at last.
They mask the pain, not root disease,
and leave the sick on endless lease.
No hospitals—just madhouse halls,
where sickness grows and order falls.
Though studies once explored the way
that garlic might keep illness away,
you’re still the subject in the game—
a hidden test without a name.
So ancient cures are cast aside
for “patients” bred to be denied.
They inherit tools of ruin and fraud,
to strip a nation down to sod.
They kill both health and common sense,
extracting wealth without defense.
All done with arrogance and greed—
the mafia’s triumphant deed.
---------------------
“A Lie Must Be Enormous”
A lie must be enormous—so Goebbels once said,
it breeds fear and instinct, the herd in your head.
You’ll howl like a wolf when the panic is sown,
and forget you were ever your own.
The bigger the lie, the easier belief—
the stranger the tale, the lesser the grief.
When fools make the majority rule,
no one bothers to check what is cruel.
It takes constant effort to dull down the mind,
to manufacture a carefully blind kind—
a brainless generation of slaves in disguise,
a lineage trained not to question but rise.
Spread the lie everywhere—simple in chaos and dust,
and silence the ones who refuse to trust.
No dissent is allowed in the “temple” of force,
where fascism sanctifies its course.
We stand in a temple of shadows and fraud,
kneeling to monsters we’ve learned to applaud.
The end of a war that never was done—
you’ll soon be reduced to a stomach, not one.
No mind is required where falsehood is king,
where cruelty dances and tyrants sing.
You’re nearly erased in this carnival scene,
lost in the machinery cold and obscene.
But strength must be gathered, resistance aligned,
to break the machinery crushing the mind.
The inhuman must be restrained and cast down,
the world torn free from its lie-heavy crown.
Let communities rise as a counter-design,
an alternative path, a new lifeline.
And there we will nurture, through will and through art,
the first shoots of freedom—alive in the heart.
---------------------
To Mom
Fate scattered us so far apart—
not yours, not mine, this break of heart.
Yet all the warmth I’ve ever known
has come from you alone.
I miss you, Mom—I want you near,
to hold you close, to keep you here.
Life often feels like endless pain—
still, I love you just the same.
We’ll meet again, recall the past,
and let our sorrows drain at last.
We’ll cry for all that fate has done,
then forgive the world as one.
I wish you joy this Angel’s Day,
good health to guide you on your way.
For you—and me—may strength remain,
through every loss, through every gain.
We’re bound together, you and I—
your only daughter by your side.
So let us cast all sorrow out
and live in joy, not fear and doubt.
I wish you love in all you do,
and luck to carry both of us through.
You’re like the month of blooming May—
alive, in every bright display.
And now I know it will be right—
our days will shine in clearer light.
We’ll face that cruel, distorted fate
and meet it strong, and not too late.
---------------------
Heresy
Only heresy is amplified loud,
from the zombified screen to the idiot crowd.
It snaps like a beast with its teeth bared wide—
a vomit of monsters the inhuman hide.
Every agency’s already bought,
all the news turned into rot.
Lies are injected since childhood’s start,
a pounding flow that tears the heart—
by night and day, it never stops.
And armies of hollow, obedient “whores”
take part in these invisible wars.
The age of humor has reached its end—
we’ve landed at the bottom, friend.
This bottom feels like death itself,
where genocide sits on the highest shelf.
These filthy devils calmly say
the pit is shallow, just child’s play.
The “whores” are journalists in disguise,
servants of rot and packaged lies.
Monsters who sell their tongues for gain,
who smear the truth and call it “obey.”
A river of falsehood floods the land,
digging the pit with a steady hand.
And still the dark keeps feeding more—
a poisoned wave, an endless roar.
Once it was flood of the ninth great wave,
now it’s apocalypse none can save.
The world has sunk in fascist night,
half already out of sight.
But if we gather strength as one,
and fight the fight that must be done,
we’ll cut down the court of lies and sin—
and tell this cruel fate: we will not give in.
---------------------
To the Generation That Will Die Young
“I won’t grow old—
I’ll go to the blade,
let it hang me quickly,
and I’ll have it paid.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, Song of Fate, 1976
We won’t grow old—
we’ll die along the way.
And to the yardarm go the bold
who chose not to obey.
Those who kept fighting all the time
against the genocide of age,
who never sold themselves to grime,
nor bleated “yes” upon the cage.
That was the script—once set in stone,
but now it’s shifting, torn apart:
only the beasts will die alone,
the final age of poisoned heart.
Only the ones who sold the rest,
for nothing—less than dust or ash.
But Spirit’s triumph stands the test—
destroy your fear in one hard crash.
High vibrations everywhere,
flowing through the open air.
Who saves another from the fall
will not be lost, will not lose all.
And in the Spirit, time will turn—
a new life rises, bright and stern.
But those who stay both blind and cold
will sink below, into the old.
---------------------
Under the Crosshairs
Under the snipers’ silent aim
a young, still searching fool went in—
not yet fully torn from the game
of propaganda’s rotting spin.
But something in him stayed intact—
he didn’t flinch, he didn’t break.
Instinct became his only pact,
and fear dissolved for survival’s sake.
When danger stands right at your side,
clench your will into a fist.
Then clarity will be your guide—
and white flags cease to exist.
Don’t walk toward the slaughter’s gate—
that’s genocide in heated form.
Instead, stay calm, and contemplate
how death arrives without a storm.
Already one in every three
is shaped by fascism’s shifting face.
The syringe now writes destiny,
and lies spread everywhere like dust and waste.
Falsehood is scattered through the air—
you can scoop it with your hands.
No need for enemies elsewhere:
your Judas neighbor makes his stand.
So we must gather, hold the line,
and strike a final, decisive blow.
Without that stand, no hope is mine—
we fall, and drag our children below.
---------------------
Brave Woman
A fearless woman from the Caucasus land,
no longer able to endure the fraud,
waited three months just to reach the hand
of petty tsar, the master of the rod.
Meanwhile she stood in protest lines,
oppressed by brute police and iron spite.
She sought the “president” for signs—
received a gesture: empty spite.
Then came the hardship, long exile,
despair and hunger, pain and strain.
A nation reaching its final mile,
a country breaking down in chain.
Don’t knock on doors of moral rot,
don’t beg from beasts for mercy’s sake.
No mind, no soul is found in that lot—
just greed and whips they gladly take.
Instead, begin to build anew—
a life autonomous, firm, and free.
No sting of inhumanity can break through
when those who stand will not agree to flee.
---------------------
Fate of a Woman
Your burden was heavy, your road was not kind,
in this world a family is hard to defend.
Not always the will of the parents aligns
with what your own heart needs in the end.
And husbands can turn into tyrants as well,
while poverty gnaws at the world like a flame.
It carves in your spirit a personal hell,
and daily care consumes you the same.
If you were a nurse, it was deeper still—
you carried the weight of all human pain.
But times have turned colder, and changed their will:
many are hardened, deformed by the chain.
Doctors now often appear as disgrace,
a greedy and bought-out deceitful herd.
Small crawling traitors with no moral face,
passing their judgment without a word.
Fake “tests” for a virus that never was real,
“protocols” made just to break and to kill.
They’ve emptied the minds of the mass they now feel,
while propaganda completes every drill.
A quiet extermination unfolds in disguise,
of those who refuse to conform or obey.
Fear and deception are spreading like lies,
corrupting the world in a slow decay.
You cannot endure this filth anymore—
you protest, you almost break into cry.
And honor to you for this brave inner roar—
at least some of the lies begin to die.
---------------------
Medical YudoTube
YudoTube went medical now—
a scholar of every germ and strain.
It also plays the cop somehow,
with censorship as its domain.
Soon only fools will ever swallow
the slop that passes every screen.
This “freedom” world is thick and hollow—
bots decide what truths are seen.
Bots inspect each line you write,
to block the thoughts they can’t allow.
The chief of censors cloaked in night
is a vicar of the devil’s vow.
He drags the world toward rot and flood,
into the sewer of inhuman kin.
And thus the rush of judgment crud—
a demon court of filtered sin.
---------------------
In Defiance of Balmont
“Fallen angels, sorrow-bright,
gentle shadows of the light,
funeral glimmers burning white
of melting candles…”
— Konstantin Balmont, Fallen Angels, 1899
Monstrous ones of foul disgrace,
stubborn filth of human race,
spreading rot in every place—
they forged an earthly Hell.
People bent without a will,
ruled by Hell and serving still,
always “satisfied” and still—
standing in obedient rows.
Blinded further, day by day,
crushed beneath a heavy sway
of lies that blot the light away,
and fear that scalds like fire.
All are timid, all untrained,
in the fight they are restrained,
made enslaved yet uncomplained—
defeated without war.
But the inhuman ones will fall,
no attendants, none at all.
You will not share in their hall—
their side of Hell decays.
And the Sun will burn the earth,
setting judgment into birth.
All will meet what life is worth—
but souls will not expire.
---------------------
Channels and Scoundrels
The first hypnotic zombie stream
injects new tools of slavery’s scheme,
and starts to mirror, grim and lean,
the old Stalinist canal machine.
The slaves look different, face and skin,
but underneath it’s much the same:
submit to those who force their win,
who seize the world by threat and shame.
You’re handed over, just like before,
to propagandists, guards, and lore—
and now the nation’s turned, in stride,
into a transit camp worldwide.
That camp still marches toward the grave,
where lies replace the chains they gave.
The propaganda’s weary howl
revives the fascist methods foul.
For it is easier to lie
and kill by stealth, not open cry,
than stage a bloody, open slaughter—
cheaper to poison sons and daughters.
Just one injection, quietly done,
and “no one harmed,” so says the run.
And wars between the brotherhood
are sparked by flooding minds with mud.
So fascists must be brought to end,
or else their blade will never bend.
If we stay silent, they will grow—
and drown the world in toxic flow.
So let these channels be laid bare,
and scoundrels lifted into air.
Or else they’ll keep the killing game
and drown us all in lies and shame.
---------------------
Curse
Be damned, you devils—
who seized this world by fraud and flame.
You’ve earned no future but destruction,
and soon your feast will end in shame.
The Judases who serve your table
will be discarded, cast away.
And all the drooling, empty-witted
will vanish too in ruin’s sway.
Those hollow fools, so loud and rotten,
drag living minds into decay.
They drain the last remaining strength—
and any sane soul slips astray.
Here treason passes as a craft,
and madness nearly earns respect.
A crowd of idiots surrounds us,
oppressed by monsters unchecked.
The remnants of humanity tremble,
their fear now locked beyond repair.
All conscience buried, honor shattered,
only lies and poison everywhere.
That lie becomes a tool of breaking—
the essence of this servile land.
It rules the system, runs the madness,
the “path” the broken fools demand.
That path descends into a sewer,
a hell of beasts without a soul.
Non-resistance to the darkness
will make them lower than the hole.
So we invoke the Sun’s great fire—
let it descend and cleanse the stain.
Through flame we break the inhuman,
and burn their shadow into rain.
---------------------
Êðîòêèå îáðÿùóò Çåìëþ —
Ðàçáåãóòñÿ ÓÏÛÐÈ!
Èäèîòû ×óøè âíåìëþò:
Èñïóãàé, ñïåðâà íàâðè,
Òàêæå ÷òî-òî îáåùàé —
Çåìëþ, ÷óäî, ïîøëûé ðàé —
È ðàçäåëèøü êàðàâàé.
Óïûðÿì — âñþ ñäîáó, ÷àé.
Ìèñêà, êðîøêè — èäèîòàì:
Íþõàé *** — è íà ðàáîòû.
---------------------
Çàâîäíîé áîëâàí÷èê —
Ïîñòàðåâøèé ìàëü÷èê —
Âñþäó "Ùàñòüå" èùåò
È îò ñòðàõà äðûùåò.
Ëîæü ïëþñ ñòðàõ äëÿ "Ùàñòüÿ" —
Êàê öâåòàì íåíàñòüÿ:
Åñëè î÷åíü äîëãî —
Êðàñîòû íåìíîãî.
---------------------
Ãëóáèíà Êðîëè÷üåé Íîðû
Ãëóáîêî ÑÒÐÅÌÈÒ Íîðà —
Íåòó ïðîäûõó. Ïîðà
Âûáèðàòüñÿ íàì Íàðóæó —
Ñ ò¸ïëîé âîíè â Ñâåò è Ñòóæó.
---------------------
Íå çàùèù¸ííàÿ ãðóïïà ×óòêèõ-×åñòíûõ, èëè ïî÷òè äîñòðîåííûé Âñåìèðíûé Öèôðîâîé Êîíöëàãåðü
Çàùèù¸ííîé ãðóïïîé íûíå
Ãîìîñåêè — âîò òå íà!
×óòêèé-÷åñòíûé åñëè ñãèíåò —
Íå çàáîòà ìèðà-ÄÍÀ.
È âñ¸ ìåíüøå ýòà ãðóïïà —
Ãåíîöèä èä¸ò âåêà:
È âîêðóã õîäÿ÷è òðóïû —
Ãðàæäàíèíà-äóðàêà
Îáîëî÷êà ñòàâèò òî÷êó
Íà èñòîðèè Çåìëè.
Âûìèðàþò â îäèíî÷êó
Òå, â êîì Äóõ è Ðàçóì. Òëè
Íå-ëþäåé õîòÿ çäåñü ìàëî,
Ïîä çàùèòîþ — â Òåíè.
Ïðîïàãàíäû ÒÂÀÐÅÉ æàëî
Âïðûñíåò Ëîæü è Ñòðàõ — òîíè
 ìèðå àäñêîì, ãëóïîì, ïîøëîì,
Äóìàÿ, ÷òî òû æèâ¸øü.
Øàíñû âîçðîæäåíüÿ â ïðîøëîì:
Òîëåðàñòèþ óìíîæü —
È âîéä¸øü â Âñåìèðíûé Ëàãåðü,
Ñîâðåìåííûé Öèôðîâîé.
Êðàñíûé êðåñò íà áåëîì ôëàãå,
Áäèò ïðîòåñò ãîðîäîâîé —
Áîò âñåìèðíûé. Äóðåíü ñìèðíûé
Çàùèù¸í — âêîëîë øìóðäÿê.
Âîñïåâàé ïîêà Òëåòâîðíûé
Ìèðîâîé Ãíèëîé Áàðäàê,
Îæèäàÿ, ÷òî äîñòðîÿò.
Ïëàíîâ ÒÂÀÐÅÉ ãðîìàäü¸:
Ëîæü òîòàëüíóþ óòðîÿò —
Äâèíåò â Ëàãåðü âñ¸ Ãíèëü¸.
"Çàùèù¸ííîñòü" ÷ðåç ïîêîðíîñòü
È ïðåäàòåëüñòâî Äóøè.
Ñâåò èùè — èíîå Âçäîðíîñòü:
Øàíñîâ ìàëî — ïîñïåøè.
"Çàùèù¸ííîñòü" — îáðå÷¸ííîñòü:
Íå äîéä¸ò â Òþðüìó Áàðäàê —
Àä ñïàëÿò çà âîâëå÷¸ííîñòü
Áîëüøèíñòâà â Àòàêó Âðàê
Ñîãëàøàòåëüñòâîì, ó÷àñòüåì
È ïðîäàæíîñòüþ. Îíà,
Îáåùàÿ äóðíÿì ñ÷àñòüå,
Îïóñòèëà ìèð äî ÄÍÀ.
Óòðîì âûãëÿíè â îêîíöå —
Ñîëíöå ñâåòèò âñ¸ ñèëüíåé.
Ñâåò ñîææ¸ò ìèðîê äî äîíöà.
Ñâåò Âíóòðè íàéòè ñóìåé,
È òîãäà íå ÷àñòü Ñèñòåìû —
Âñïîëîõ Ñâåòà â Öàðñòâå Òüìû.
Íåò èíîé äëÿ ×óòêèõ òåìû
Ñðåäè Ëæèâîé Êóòåðüìû.
---------------------
Reviews and Ratings
“Disgusting!” — that’s the medal
For a poet worth his flame.
Craving praise from minds so feeble
Is a loser’s little game.
Loathsome slavery and blindness —
If you strike at chains this way,
Then the drones, through spite and mindlessness,
Rage and bark their souls away.
Calling chaos “something vital,”
Worshipping this grand decay,
Bound by Stockholm dreams and idols,
They defend the fraud each day.
Thus the madhouse, bought and rotten,
Will condemn what dares rebel —
For a world completely broken
Never judges truth too well.
---------------------
Their “disgust” — a badge of fire,
Proof the verse has struck the bone.
Slaves defend their chains with vigor —
And condemn the truth alone.
---------------------
Self-Parody
“No matter how you feed a donkey steroids, it still won’t turn into a stallion.”
— Ancient wisdom of highly qualified long-distance runners.
A runner drowns inside the marathon,
A poet — in his verse and raging blaze.
And if your name is Igor Vykhovanets,
The effort burns through all your nights and days.
I know them both through massive years of practice —
The road, the page, the battle and the grime.
For in this STINKING World’s gigantic backside,
You’ll turn a donkey if you fall in line.
To be a “poet” for the crowd means braying,
Producing hollow jingles for the mass.
Such fools will never seize the tail of fortune —
Their minds are built from cheap and shattered glass.
The marathon is just as unforgiving:
If born without the fire, you won’t endure.
But to BECOME a poet means forgetting
Your belly’s needs — while life stays frail, obscure.
And if your life has smoked away since childhood,
Then write FOR YOURSELF through darkness, through despair.
A splendid way to keep the beast from growing —
To not become a goat-like slave in there.
---------------------
The runner dies inside the race,
The poet — in the flame.
To write for crowds is just disgrace;
For truth, burn all the same.
---------------------
The Great Kitchen
Johnny Nobody, Comrade Masha —
Heads all filled with mental trash.
Brewing up this rotten porridge
Is the MONSTER ruling rash.
Fake tsar posing through his doubles,
Feeding lies from screen to screen.
And the farther — grows the uglier,
Filthier the whole machine.
Soon the feast will end in sickness,
Poison choking every tongue.
After that comes rot and ruin —
That’s the fate the fools have sung.
---------------------
They cooked the lies for years on end,
Till brains became decay.
A kingdom built on fraud and sludge
Will rot itself away.
---------------------
Puppets
Karabas-Barabas
Keeps us crushed beneath his mass —
Teacher, cop, “elected” leader,
Bureaucratic jackass breeder,
Every freak with scraps of power
Makes the human spirit cower.
Lower still they always crawl —
There’s no bottom point at all.
Stupid puppets march in rows
Toward the wars their master chose,
Driven into grinding labor,
Drugged by frauds in masks of “savior.”
Fake diseases, poisoned cures —
Just to thin the herd of yours.
No bright future waits ahead:
If you’re not a puppet — “mad.”
To the sawdust-minded cattle,
Every soul awake’s a hassle.
Anyone who feels too deep
Looks insane to programmed sheep.
---------------------
Puppets marching, strings pulled tight,
Dragged through labor, fear, and lies.
Any soul that sees the trap
Looks “insane” to blinded eyes.
---------------------
Commissars of All Lands — Appoint Yourselves!
“We shall rely on Russian scum and the inertia of the masses.”
— Leon Trotsky
A casino built on rigged promotions,
Firings, schemes, and poisoned games —
Crafty vermin climb through slaughter,
Genocide becomes their trade.
And the crowd, so dull and passive,
Will obey the loudest fraud.
Toward a slow spiritual ruin
They’ll be herded by the rod.
They will brand that death “communism,”
Hide the core with painted myths,
Masking rot and cold satanic
Depths beneath utopian scripts.
---------------------
Commissars rise through blood and lies,
While numb crowds praise the chain.
They call decay “the workers’ dawn” —
But underneath: pure stain.
---------------------
Brains Drowned in Fat
Fat-lord,
“Chief Mind” —
Rot poured
Worldwide.
The screens all chew,
The dull ones too.
Talent? Rejected.
Nonsense? Respected.
Whatever the Trust
Throws into the pit,
The fool gulps it down
And calls it “legit.”
---------------------
The media feeds,
The morons consume.
Talent gets buried —
While nonsense goes boom.
---------------------
Trash and Bio-Trash
The cops? A kennel! Serving MONSTERS,
For genocide’s their sacred creed.
Just one glance at those rotten faces
Shows what kind they choose and breed.
They call them hounds — and rightly call them,
The name strikes straight, precise and grim.
The BEASTS crush freedom ever harder,
And barking fools obey the whim.
Dark times revealed through CowID terror
Exactly who is what beneath:
All “states” exposed as raving sickness —
The “citizen” means less than dirt.
They’re cleansing out the “bio-garbage,”
And filthy cops assist the game.
The poison jab was never “choice” —
But Evil’s vast experimental flame.
The experiment will soon be shattered —
A furious cataclysm waits.
But now the masses hide in burrows,
Enduring fascist-ridden states.
---------------------
The hounds obey, the masses crawl,
The tyrants spread disease.
A world that treats men worse than trash
Is rotting at the knees.
---------------------
Feeding the Black Swans
A black swan crossed the darkened sky
And left the masses cast aside.
To minds awake, to souls still sensing,
It looks less swan than sparrow’s cry.
Instinct rarely lies or falters.
Those who battle night and horror
Walk alone through hostile ages —
That’s the wage for breaking cages.
But the herd keeps thinking only:
“Let me stay alive and comfy.
Everything beyond my stomach
Can be bought again with money.”
Thus you harvest fear and baseness,
Though your pride will veil the shame:
All around — corrupted idiots,
Selling soul and selling name.
Stuffed mouths never rise to shouting;
Truth and savagery collide —
Yet the answer’s deadened silence:
Fools submit to Evil’s stride.
The black swan’s born from realms of darkness.
Rot and ruin spread everywhere.
It flies toward the fading sparkle
Of a little Light still there.
Feed the black swan. Those are humans
Who still draw the monster’s rage,
Who receive the mark of darkness
While enduring this grim age.
Every crisis here is crafted.
Since the cradle you were thrown
Into rotting soil and madness,
Taught to rot instead of grow.
So resistance to the filth becomes
The highest task within
This gigantic madhouse drowning
Where most souls and minds are dimmed.
Three-fourths wander half-comatose,
While the BEASTS collect their rent —
Fear and suffering harvested deeply,
Human anguish fully spent.
Your black swan is your refusal
To produce that psychic feed.
Then the scaffold waits before you —
That’s the system’s final creed.
Now the scaffold’s swapped for digital camps,
Smoother chains and brighter screens.
Evil’s bulldozer keeps flattening Earth,
Still the fool just idly dreams.
Dreams come true for Darkness only —
CowID showed the truth in full:
Rot, disgrace, corruption, terror,
Human spirits crushed and dulled.
Yet the schemes of all these vermin
Will collapse in little time:
Worldwide cataclysm approaching
To erase the fascist slime.
Though with slavery go the slaves too —
If all people turn to cattle,
Then the faster burns the foulness
Valued only by the soulless.
---------------------
Feed the black swan — keep your soul
While cattle kneel in fear.
The darkness hates the ones awake;
That truth is crystal clear.
---------------------
Reading Hut
The reading hall’s a forge of nonsense,
Where hammers pound the brain with lies.
Publishing houses — cesspits breeding
Idiots beneath dead skies.
The fool gets “educated” slowly
Through endless floods of scripted trash.
Censorship is always present —
Past and future, lash by lash.
And slavery will reign forever
Where nonsense rules both night and day.
For all this garbage has its masters,
Who keep the blinded herd at bay.
---------------------
Books of lies and poisoned thought
Forge obedient fools.
Where nonsense crowns itself as truth,
The masters make the rules.
---------------------
Stars That Never Fall
“In the sky hangs a star, fading away —
Nowhere to fall.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, “Song About Stars”
The stars still hang,
They long to fall,
Yet wish for such abysmal grime,
That all the Earth
Turns into Hell —
Mad selfish crowds decay with time.
The herd’s gone blind,
Consumed by greed,
Its ego burns through every wall.
And from this rot
The darkness feeds —
While hanging stars refuse to fall.
---------------------
The stars won’t fall —
The filth runs deep.
Mad crowds embrace
The Hell they keep.
---------------------
Stars That Never Fall
“The star hangs fading in the sky —
Nowhere left to fall.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, “Song of the Stars”
The stars still hang,
They long to dive,
Yet wish for SUCH FILTH in their despair,
That Earth itself
Turns into Hell —
The herd’s gone mad through selfish care.
All drowned in ego, blind and hollow,
Crushing meaning into dust.
Dreaming ruin, feeding darkness,
Calling greed and rot “their trust.”
---------------------
The stars can’t fall —
No ground remains.
Mad crowds through selfishness alone
Have forged infernal chains.
---------------------
Solar Apocalypse
An excess of true LIFE gets severed —
Mere survival earns applause.
Thus the cattle form is crafted softly,
Driven toward obedient stalls.
The BEASTS think only in generations;
Individuals mean nothing there.
If decay arrives in measured doses,
Herds won’t rise, won’t even care.
Very few are human truly now —
The muzzles marked the grazing mass.
And don’t despair that all is shattered;
Life itself is smoke and glass.
For the spiritual road within this madness
Is an exception, sharp and rare.
So at the end the Sun will thunder,
Saving Spirit — burning despair.
---------------------
They train the herds to merely survive,
While Spirit fades from sight.
Then comes the Sun — not just to burn,
But separate dark from Light.
---------------------
Millionaires Eat Fast Food
Millionaires eat greasy fast food too,
Right on the street like common trash.
Their shallow pleasures look so “human” —
“See? They’re just like us!” they splash.
The movies hammer that idea
Into the minds of all the herd:
“Your life is normal, don’t complain now —
Only proud fools find it absurd.”
So live rejoicing in the sewage,
Smile while sinking in decay.
The masses cheer their chains with passion,
Gladly throwing thought away.
---------------------
“They’re just like us!” the screens repeat,
While minds sink into mud.
Be proud to rot in comfort’s cage —
And drown inside the sludge.
---------------------
The Mouse Dilemma
Shiny little traps are waiting,
Scattered everywhere in sight.
But the mice grew slick and crafty —
Steal the cheese and dodge the bite.
Still another problem lingers:
Poisoned? Rotten? Hard to tell.
This whole world’s a mouse dilemma —
Even clever rats fall well.
Every scheme conceals corruption,
Every prize conceals decay.
And the slyest thief discovers
There’s no clean escape today.
---------------------
The mice outsmart the trap at last —
Yet poisoned is the cheese.
In a rotten world of cunning games,
No one escapes with ease.
---------------------
Blotting-Paper World
Party bosses, polished preachers,
Push their dogmas coast to coast.
Tolerance turned into prison —
Freedom fades like smoke and ghosts.
This whole world is soaked in darkness,
Like blotting paper torn apart.
Branded deep by creeping fascism,
Rot has reached the very heart.
Downward runs the single pathway,
Lower still the masses slide.
Truth is buried under slogans,
While the hollow grins with pride.
---------------------
The world absorbs corruption fast,
Like paper soaked in stain.
When lies become a sacred law,
Collapse is all that reigns.
---------------------
Cowardice of Fools
Murka doesn’t live for hides,
Nor does one cat rule her skies.
But the fool who kneels to Evil
Rots in oceans thick with lies —
Before a kitten, beast-like, crawling,
Blind and broken in disguise.
The timid soul betrays itself
For comfort, scraps, and fear.
And step by step in poisoned falsehood
Loses all that once was clear.
---------------------
A cat still walks with natural grace —
The fool crawls worse than beasts.
For fear and lies consume the soul
Till nothing human breathes.
---------------------
Dead Souls, or The Gold Reserve of a Fake Nation
Thousands poor — the “gold reserve,”
Shear us clean, we’ll never swerve.
The pauper’s blind, exhausted, mute,
Too crushed to rise, too worn to shoot.
And if you fleece the millions well,
You’ll climb straight up the wealthiest hell.
Yet no need to be “president” —
He’s just excrement well spent
By the BEASTS that stand above him.
On our rooftops filth they’re shoving.
Roofs collapse, minds crack and bend —
The poor become the BEASTS’ dividend.
Nations turned to counterfeits long ago;
Propaganda floods the flow.
The nonsense preached by ruling swine
Falls on dead souls just like wine.
Pavel Chichikov now seems almost quaint and silly,
For today the masses freely
Walk half-dead or wholly hollow —
Darkness loves enormous numbers to follow.
Single souls don’t interest Evil;
CowID exposed that upheaval.
Mind and spirit mostly slain —
Thus the Camp shall rise again.
Red cross blazing on white banners,
Murder masked as caring manners.
Those not executed outright
Rot away in slow twilight.
---------------------
Dead souls fill the counterfeit states,
Fed on slogans, fear, and lies.
When spirit dies inside the herd,
The digital prison rises.
---------------------
Corpse-Lilies
All efforts seem so useless,
All labor turns to dust.
The BEASTS alone are thunderous —
They own the screens we trust.
Politicians fill their pockets,
Blackmail forged in iron chains.
A fascist world of crawling filth
Where vermin thrive and reign.
And like a lily “fragrant,”
This rotting order blooms —
A stench of slavish living
That poisons all the rooms.
Mind, Honor, Truth, and Conscience
Grow weak in poisoned clay;
The soil is wrong for goodness
In this diseased decay.
Yet still one must keep striving,
If only for the Soul —
Not to become corrupted:
No higher human goal.
---------------------
The swamp rewards the loudest beasts,
While truth decays unseen.
Still guard your soul against the rot —
That fight alone stays clean.
---------------------
Geniuses of Sarcasm
Dedicated to Vladimir Polyakov
“They’ll brand upon each forehead deep
The mark that we are free.”
— Vladimir Polyakov, “Half-Pirozhki”
“I thought I’d hit the very bottom —
Then someone knocked from underneath.”
— Stanis;aw Jerzy Lec
Before great Stanis;aw Jerzy Lec, Polyakov rises
Like a mountain, though Lec’s immense.
Not with salt but pepper in the wounds
He sharpened wit to fierce offense.
Rams are frightened of such pastries,
Spiced with fire instead of balm.
Yet for others pain becomes the springboard —
A leap beyond the global calm.
One must leap out of this madness
Where the crippled world now lies.
Half a dose of biting sarcasm
Heals the mind that hasn’t died.
Throw red pepper on the open wounds —
And don’t forget the acid rain.
If you dare within the realm of language,
Beauty will not die in vain.
Beauty’s fragile — thus the Warrior
Of the Word is needed still.
Break the pillars of all slavish systems:
Strike with language — strike with will!
---------------------
Sarcasm burns like acid fire,
But wakes the sleeping brain.
Strike harder with the living Word —
Or Beauty dies in chains.
---------------------
Discoveries at the Tip of a Pen
Thus Pluto once was found —
So distant, dark, profound.
But Mars mankind knew well:
The god of war and hell.
The poet studies nearer things —
The madness of the crowd,
Aggression, spite, corrupted souls,
All screaming harsh and loud.
And sometimes at the pen’s sharp tip
There yawns a RAT’S DARK HOLE —
A black-hole pit consuming minds,
Devouring heart and soul.
Time to bury such a burrow deep…
Yet now that hole’s the world itself,
Where Satan sits enthroned above
And spirit dies on every shelf.
For poets this world turns to target practice:
He stands exposed, alone and poor.
A naked witness in a firing range,
Still striking darkness evermore.
---------------------
At the pen-tip waits a blackened hole
Where rotten ages swirl.
The poet sees what crowds ignore —
A rat-hole called “the world.”
---------------------
Joyful Daily Hard Labor
Five a.m. — the waking hour,
Out you crawl from cramped “home-shower.”
Let the tunnel air run through —
Clear the mind of sleep and dew.
Since no sun-god lights your fate,
No Ra guides you, warm and great,
Off to work — and shout with cheer:
“Hurrah!” though nothing good is near.
---------------------
At dawn you rise, the bell rings loud,
No sun god smiles above the crowd.
Still march ahead, and shout “Hooray!” —
To grind another wasted day.
---------------------
Ark
Boredom, sorrow — all a mess,
No more bread or emptiness
Of “entertainment,” lies, and show —
When fascism runs the flow.
Its foundation: pure stupidity,
Spreading wide like dark acidity.
Few remain with clear perception —
Earth decays through mass infection.
Thus the world has long been testing
Human stock in failed investing —
Monsters born from human clay,
Broken experiment gone astray.
Even Hell receives the payment,
Wrapped in fate like twisted statement.
Then again a new Noa builds
An ark of life before it spills.
Pairs of creatures, saved from flame,
Leave behind the world of shame —
Sailing off from cursed ground
Toward a darker Hell profound.
---------------------
When fools and lies consume the land,
And madness takes its toll,
The Ark departs with trembling life —
From one Hell to the next it rolls.
---------------------
Gadget
A gadget —
pure decay:
the mind runs loose
and breaks away.
Mass-produced, it floods the feed,
cheap noise sold as “daily need.”
Brains go soft, the circuits rot —
a sewer dressed as something “hot.”
---------------------
Gadgets shine — but rot inside,
Mind dissolves in constant tide.
Mass-made trash in endless stream,
Turning thought into a scream.
---------------------
Erudition of Nonsense
“An intelligence unscarred by memory is truly free.”
— Jiddu Krishnamurti
Not quite free — yet more expansive
Is the mind when lies are shed.
With such lies the road is fashioned
Straight to Hell, where souls lie dead.
The crowd is stuffed with pure absurdity,
Engineered by BEASTS unseen.
With such noise you cannot truly
Be yourself — the mind turns green,
Rotting slowly under pressure
From the sludge that floods the brain.
So forget it all — and clearly
Gaze upon your prison’s chain.
Walls are built from purest nonsense,
Condensed madness, thick and dense.
Only listen to the Heart now —
Memory becomes the fence.
Memory’s scars are wounds of insult,
Left within the prison’s night.
Leeches know this well and deepen
Every cut with twisted spite.
All these manufactured sorrows
Multiply the wounded trace,
Till no sign of truth remains there,
No “stop” can break the race.
Stop believing what they pour in,
Filling mind with filth and lies.
Thus the soul is slowly murdered
While the mocking laughter rises.
---------------------
Break the lies that cage the mind,
Let false memory fade away.
Only then the Heart sees clearly —
Through the prison’s ruined grey.
---------------------
Genocide
Gun and sight, and foolish “darling,”
caught beneath the war horn’s snarling.
Meat-assault—“save bodies!” crying,
while the soul is quietly dying.
You’ll receive a Joseph Kobzon concert,
marching straight into the monster.
Then to Hell of quiet fools,
broken minds and broken rules.
The scheme of genocide stays steady:
once again the fool is ready.
Sent to war and endless labor,
“for your care” — they still enslave her.
Crushed to dust in every age,
turned to powder, cleared the stage.
---------------------
Guns and lies and smiling blindness,
marching in obedient lines.
The fool is ground by “care” and “kindness” —
while the system tightens chains.
---------------------
Cheap and Worthless Films
Nonsense, drag, and empty showing —
That’s the cinema today.
Hours of dull, mindless flowing,
Nothing real to say.
Rare exceptions barely surface,
Lost inside the mass-produced.
All the rest is slick illusion,
Cheap and endlessly reused.
---------------------
,,
Empty films and hollow screen —
Same recycled waste again.
Truth is rare and barely seen
In this factory of pain.
---------------------
Partisans in the Forest
In the forest, deep and hidden,
Partisans, once battle-bidden,
Healed their wounds and scars of war —
Then forgot what they fought for.
Suddenly a picnic started,
Fire in their souls departed.
Struggle faded into haze —
Comfort won its empty praise.
World outside reflects that story:
Turning humans into quarry.
All that matters now is pleasure —
Drink and food and lust as treasure.
Gas is drifting through the forest
To erase each protest chorus.
With that gas come fake diseases —
Mind itself soon dies and ceases…
CowID has shown the pattern clearly —
Mind is nearly broken nearly.
Only pleasure now survives
While decay of spirit thrives.
---------------------
From fighters turned to comforted sleep,
The will to resist decays.
And while the world sinks into rot,
They numb themselves with haze.
---------------------
Paradoxical States
You’ll be given a parachute that’s torn and full of holes,
If fear of falling quietly controls your inner soul.
Dragged off toward the camps, resisting nothing, meek and still,
If you “respect” the power that bends you to its will.
Safety promised turns to danger, trust becomes the blade,
And every system built on fear is carefully displayed.
---------------------
Fear buys you a broken chute,
Obedience — the cage.
The more you trust the ruling hand,
The deeper grows the stage.
---------------------
The Squirrel-in-the-Wheel Motivator
What is the core of running round?
To be “like all,” to stay in bound?
No — fear is what the system breeds,
The root from which the motion feeds.
If paradise is promised far,
If heaven waits beyond the scar,
The ruling hand won’t interfere,
Nor let exhaustion bring you near.
A “ladder up” is shown ahead,
While crumbs of hope keep mouths well-fed.
And so you run with frantic pace,
Erasing thought, erasing face.
You spin to blur the passing days,
To drown in motion’s foggy haze.
And call the cage a forest wide —
While terror keeps you trapped inside.
---------------------
Run faster in the spinning wheel,
Forget what fear would make you feel.
For in that blur of endless chase
The cage becomes a “natural place.”
---------------------
A Poet’s Grip of Mind
A poet needs a mind that’s sharp,
Not murky thoughts that strain and warp.
For those who churn in fog and fuss
Burn out too fast, and then become thus:
They chase the hollow spark of “fame,”
And learn to serve the crowd’s dull game.
They bend to mob and low desire,
And feed a world that sinks still lower in the mire.
---------------------
A dull mind burns, then fades away,
Chasing applause from the grey.
But sharp thought cuts through noise and lies —
And only that survives.
---------------------
“Weightiness”
Work harder — don’t slow down, don’t stray,
And everything will be “okay.”
Though heart and pulse may wear away,
Just smile and keep your role at play.
Don’t dare step out, don’t leave the race —
“Success” is waiting in that place.
You’ll end up heavy — but not wise —
A solid scum in business guise.
---------------------
Work, suffer, run — don’t break the chain,
And call your loss “success” again.
You’ll win your prize: a heavy name,
And rot inside the game.
---------------------
Ïèùà ìåðòâÿêîâ
Êàøà íàøà — Ëîæü. À Ñòðàõ
Ê íåé ïîäëèâîþ. Àëëàõ,
Îí ðîãàòûé, — æð¸ò ãàââàõ,
Ïðåâðàùàÿ ÷åðíü âñþ â ïðàõ.
---------------------
Ñëåä íà Ëó÷å
Íîâûé ôþðåð. Ïðàâäà — âë¸ò.
×óøè âåðèò èäèîò;
Ñíîâà îí â ïîõîä ïîéä¸ò,
Ãäå Ïîçîð èëü ñìåðòü íàéä¸ò.
Ïîâòîðÿåòñÿ îïÿòü
Âñ¸ â èñòîðèè — ñòåíàòü
Äóðíè áóäóò îïîñëÿ.
È îïÿòü âñÿ "æèçíü" ëèøü ÄËß.
Äëÿ ïîòâîðñòâîâàíüÿ Ëæè —
Ñíîâà Ìåðçîñòè ñëóæè,
Íàçîâóò ÷òî "äîáðîòîé":
Âíîâü â çàøêàëå ÑÌÐÀÄîâ âîé.
Ãåááåëüñ ÑÌÐÀÄîâ ãëàâíûé ãóðó —
 ïîä÷èíåíüè âñÿ "êóëüòóðà".
Ãëàâíîå — áåðå÷ü â Òüìå øêóðó.
Íå îáìàíåøü ïóëþ-äóðó.
Ñíîâà ôþðåð. "Ïðàâäà" — âð¸ò.
ÒÂÀÐßÌ âåðèò èäèîò;
Ñíîâà íà âîéíó èä¸ò —
Íåëþäü âñïëåñê ãàââàõà æä¸ò.
Èçìåíÿåòñÿ ôàñàä.
Âå÷íî ìèðîì ïðàâèò Ãàä.
Ëîæü è Ñòðàõ åãî îðóæèå.
È âñåãäà óìîì íå äþæèå
Òîëïû. Ñ íîâûì ïîêîëåíüåì
Âñ¸ ñèëüíåå ðàçëîæåíüå:
Ãåíîöèä â îñíîâå ìåð
Âñåõ. Íî âåðèò "ïèîíåð".
Ñíîâà ôþðåð èì íàâð¸ò.
Âíîâü ïîéä¸ò ïîêîðíûé ñáðîä.
Äàëå — â Ëàãåðü Öèôðîâîé
Ëþäîåäñêèé Ìèðîâîé.
×óòêèõ-óìíûõ åäèíèöû.
Àä Êðîìåøíûé èì íå ìíèòñÿ —
Ñîõðàíèëè Äóõà ÷àñòü,
Îöåíèâ ðåàëüíî âëàñòü.
Ïóñòü òîëïå âíîâü ôþðåð âð¸ò,
×óòêèé Ñâåò â ñåáå íàéä¸ò
È ê Èñòîêó îí ïîéä¸ò —
Òîò âíå Ñôåðû Àäà æä¸ò.
Èíòðîñïåêöèÿ, êðèòè÷íîñòü —
Íå äîñòàíåò Çëà öèêëè÷íîñòü.
Âñ¸ Âíóòðè — íà Çëî îòâåò,
Íà îôåðòû Òüìû ëèøü "íåò!".
È ïîêèíåò Àäà Áðåä,
È îñòàíåòñÿ ëèøü ñëåä
Íà ëó÷å èç Õëåâà Áåä.
---------------------
Ïóëüâåðèçàòîðû
"Ëèòåðàòóðà": ø`óðû-ì`óðû,
"Ñòðàíà" è ïðî÷àÿ ***íÿ.
×ðåç îäîáðÿìñû ñìåðòü êóëüòóðû.
×óòü "êðèòèêè" âî "çëîáó äíÿ"
Ìåíÿåò ìàëî â Çëà ðàñêëàäàõ —
Ëèøü êëàïàí, âûïóñòèòü ÷òîá ïàð.
Ìåéíñòðèì èç ÑÌÐÀÄîâ — òâÀðèòü ãàäîâ.
Âñÿ ïèñàíèíà — ðåòóøü Íàð.
Åñòü èñêëþ÷åíèÿ. Èõ ìàëî.
Âñåãäà íàõîäÿòñÿ íà äíå.
Íå âûðâóò ïðîïàãàíäû æàëî.
Ëèøü îòðàçÿò: âåñü ìèð â Ãîâíå.
Ãîâíî âîíÿåò. ×ðåç ïðîäàæíûõ
Ïóëüâåðèçàòîðîâ ñìÿã÷àò
Îòâðàòíûé ÑÌÐÀÄ; èóä âñåõ "âàæíûõ"
Âíîâü äèôèðàìáîì íàãðàäÿò.
Ïðåäàòåëüñòâà, ïðîäàæíîñòü òÿíóò
Áåçóìíûé ìèð ÷ðåç ×óøü íà Äíî.
Îò ñëîâ íè÷òîæíûõ óøè âÿíóò
Ó åäèíèö. ×åðíü — âñ¸ ðàâíî.
Ëþáóþ ëîæü â ÷åðíü âòþõàòü ìîæíî.
×ðåç ëîæü âîãíàòü áåçóìöåâ â ñòðàõ.
È ýòî íèêîãäà íå ñëîæíî —
Óì ïðåâðàòèëñÿ â ìíîãèõ â ïðàõ.
Ðàñòëåíüå ÷åðåç îãëóïëåíüå —
Îñíîâà ãåíîöèäà. Îí
Èä¸ò âåêà — Òüìû ïðåñòóïëåíüÿ
Âîçâåäåíû âåçäå â çàêîí.
Âñ¸ "ñâåòëîå" ëèøü äåêëàðàöèè.
 õîäó êàðàòåëüíàÿ ÷àñòü.
Óæå â çàøêàëå Äåãðàäàöèÿ.
Íî öåëü îäíà — ïîíèæå ïàñòü.
Ïóëüâåðèçàòîðû Ïàäåíüå
Ïðîãðåññîì ñíîâà íàçîâóò.
Èçäåðæêàìè — â Òüìå Ðàçëîæåíüå.
"Äóøèñòî", "ñëàäêî" ìðàçè âðóò.
È ïåðñïåêòèâû íèêàêèå —
Êðîìåøíûé Àä æä¸ò âïåðåäè.
Íî êàê âñåãäà â ãîäà ëèõèå
Òðûíäÿò â ÷åðíü: "Ìàííû ñ íåáà æäè".
Êîíå÷íî, ÷ðåç ñëîâà äðóãèå,
Íî ñìûñë îäèí: òåðïè è æäè.
 ÍÈ×ÒÎ óõîäÿò íèêàêèå,
Òîï÷àñü íà ìåñòå. Ñòîé!-èäè!!!
Âàðèàíò. Òàëäû÷àò: "Ìàííû ñ íåáà æäè".
---------------------
Óõîä
Ãåíîöèä. Ñòðàõ, Ëîæü è Ñòûä.
Ðàçóì ñíèê, ïî÷òè èçæèò
×èñòûé Äóõ.  Êëîàêó ñëèò
Ìèð áåçóìíûé. Ê "ñ÷àñòüþ" ì÷èò
Çëó ïîêîðíûé èäèîò
È ïóñêàåòñÿ â ðàñõîä
Ïîýòàïíî. ×óòêèé — ïëåííûé.
Èùåò âûõîä. Ïîñòåïåííî
Ïîíèìàåò, ÷òî ÷ðåç âõîä
Èçáàâëåíèå ïðèä¸ò.
Âõîä â áåçóìíûé óòëûé ìèð —
Ãëóïîñòü. Åñëè Äóõ êóìèð —
 âíåòåëåñíîñòü: â íåèçâåñòíîñòü.
Ýòî ïðåä Äóøîþ ÷åñòíîñòü.
Áðåä — íàäåÿòüñÿ íà ÷òî-òî
Ñðåäü óáîãèõ èäèîòîâ.
Êðàòêàÿ ýêñòðàïîëÿöèÿ.
Äíåñü â çàøêàëå Äåãðàäàöèÿ.
Äàëåå — àííèãèëÿöèÿ:
Äóõ óõîäèò — íå ñòàãíàöèÿ.
Ê Äóõó Äóõ — âíå Ñôåðû Àäà.
Èëü ñóäüáà ïðîäàæíûõ ãàäîâ
Íàñòèãàåò. Àäà îïûò —
Íå ó÷åíèå, à Æîïà.
Æîïà Àäà: ÒÂÀÐßÌ â ðàäîñòü,
Åñëè âåðèøü òû â Íüþ-ýéäæ,
"Ïîëíîöåííî" ñóìàñøåäø,
"Ïðàâäó" ÷åðåç Áðåä íàøåäø.
Áðåä çàøêàëåí, èíôåðíàëåí.
Ïóòü âî Òüìå âñåãäà ôàòàëåí,
Êîëü íå âûéäåøü ÷åðåç âõîä.
È Âíóòðè òîò ðàçâîðîò.
Öåëü îäíà — â Èñòîê óõîä.
---------------------
Íå ïîâåðèøü, êîëü ïðîâåðèøü.
— Ïðîâåðÿåò ëîæü çäåñü êòî?
— ×óøü ñîñåäåé äåä Ïèõòî...
---------------------
Poems Are Needed Only by Their Authors
This matters only unto you —
Seek no response from cattle true,
From fools, from mobs that crawl and kneel:
This is a cave-world, cold as steel.
A few exceptions still survive
Among dead generations’ hive,
But they grow rarer year by year
Beneath Hell’s Fog of doubt and fear.
Decay is spreading everywhere,
And whores-for-gold with empty stare
Prize only flattery and lies —
Thus slavery they “justify.”
---------------------
At Some “Grand Construction Site” — Almost a Fantasy
In memory of Leonid Gubanov
Hello, my friends — I spent my days
Inside the madhouse’s dim haze
For one “unsuitable” small verse
Whose longing for the Light was cursed.
Not for a girl — for something higher.
“Cured,” I lost poetic fire.
Then to a labor gang I came;
In Moscow none would take my name.
So let hard work erase the pain,
Let sweat and booze drown out the brain.
And if the foreman throws me out —
I’ll sweep the streets. I have no doubt.
We’ll help ourselves with alcohol,
And watch our battered life-lines fall.
What difference does tomorrow make
Inside this grand insane mistake?
---------------------
World Bedlam on the Road to Hell
Once harnessed to the load,
No matter weak or bold,
You drag it till you die.
Collapse? They’ll pass you by —
Or crush you with a grin,
Still “caring” through the din.
Concern’s their sacred spell.
Keep silent. Pull it well.
And haul yourself to Hell.
The Devil rides the cart.
He plays the tempter’s part,
With carrots on a string
Before each broken thing.
He owns the crippled mind,
Leaves human wrecks behind.
Hell’s Power rules the track,
No milestone does it lack.
It marks each step you tread
Toward doom already spread.
Not long remains to roam:
Obedient Bedlam’s home.
The whole mad world pulls hard,
Too brain-dead to stand guard.
---------------------
Banditry and Idiocy — A Comparison
Gunfire cracking —
Gangsters acting.
Cannons roaring —
Bastards pouring
Fools and losers
Into bruisers’
Bloody madness.
Hell has had us.
Fed on lies from birth to grave,
They sank lower than a slave.
---------------------
Rotten Bedlam
Navel-gazing cannot heal
A world where Hell is all too real.
It only helps you shift your place
From one damned circle to the next.
Then back again — the loop is sealed.
Hell’s spheres are locked and iron-wheeled.
Thus swarms of traitors thrive with ease
Within this rotting dark disease.
Serve only Heart. Let Mind remain
A tool to help the Soul attain
Its upward path beyond the snare.
Few grasp this truth — so strive to dare
Become among those scattered few
Who seek the Light beyond the blue
Of Hell’s closed systems. Far above
Dwells the “benign god” without gloves
Of doctrine, dogma, priestly fraud.
The Soul must seek that distant God.
Yet it is hard — the mind is weak,
The Soul forgot the Light it seeks,
Forgot the realm of Purity.
No map remains. No certainty.
And Buddhism calls to the Void —
One more Hell-chamber thus deployed.
Believe not blindly. Seek alone,
Or once again the lies full-grown
Will drag you back through phantom sham
That chains in dark this Rotten Bedlam.
---------------------
All-Conquering “Humanizm”
Too little porridge when a child —
You did not grow obedient, mild.
Too little listening to lies —
Your Soul grew stronger, sharper-eyed.
Fear, submission, sludge and mush —
That is life they praise so much.
Eat less. Think more. Though you may seem
More grim, more gaunt, less fit the scheme,
More hateful to the crawling crowd,
You’ll stand against Delusion proud.
For what now spreads is not disease,
But rotting madness by degrees.
A pandemic of decay,
Of nauseating mindless sway.
The bastards turn the brain to paste,
Mix fear like butter into waste.
They poison minds with “noble” creeds,
In darkness plant destructive seeds.
And faster still those doctrines kill —
The cult of Evil bends all will.
Now “humanism” reigns worldwide —
Thin-veiled satanic rot inside.
Fight Darkness, or your Soul will drown
In oceans of absurd renown.
---------------------
The Whole World’s a Prison — Yet the Prisoners Aren’t Thieves
We crush our Souls by serving lies,
By twisted forms of bowing lives.
Is it not time to wake and see,
To look around more carefully?
The world’s a prison. Scum command.
Idiots cheer what they’ve been handed.
They’re fooled with chaff and empty bait,
Reduced to cattle by the State.
Satanism fills the jail —
The bastards call it “good” and “care.”
They smother fools with sweet concern
While watching all the weak ones burn.
CowID exposed the core
Of what their “loving measures” were.
And showed most creatures in this place
Are meatballs on a side-dish plate.
Fear and “gavvah” — garnish, meat.
If flesh alone becomes your creed,
Then flesh alone is what you’ll be,
Your Soul debased progressively.
All degradation they defend
Through pseudo-science without end,
Through false religions, hollow schools,
Through herds transformed to useful fools.
Pamphlets printed by the ton,
Ten thousand films to numb everyone.
A shriveled Spirit means you’re poor —
False science seeks to kill it more.
And luck was with them: peasants trust,
They open wide to lies and lust,
To theories foul, to evil schemes
Growing viler with the years it seems.
That is “progress.” Media’s press
Will finish off the mindfulness,
As hurriedly they build the Cage —
A newer Camp for a darker age.
CowID became the stone
Laid first within that structure’s bones.
The Darkness scares the fools once more —
They’ll lock themselves behind the door.
Think. Act. Fear not. The prison walls
Are smeared with “norms” that slowly crawl.
Breathe deep — or else one day you’ll wake
As cattle molded for their sake.
---------------------
Whims of “New Beginnings”
Got a wild itch in your head?
Start again the life you dread —
Dragging that absurd life-cart
Through a graveyard picked apart.
Whichever road you choose to tread,
You’re still a slave among the dead.
No other places can be found
While madness keeps your Spirit bound.
To cast that madness from your mind,
You must not sell your soul for grime.
Go deep within — seek answers there;
Without the Light, all dreams despair.
Without that Light, new starts are sheep
Marched to the slaughter half-asleep.
That Light is inward. Outwardly
They only freshen carcasses visibly.
CowID revealed it clear,
As did the war and rule through fear.
Cry “Danger!” to obedient lice —
They’ll rush to serve without thinking twice.
What struck me most in CowID’s reign
Was how the fools obeyed insane
Commands dropped down by lying mouths
With zeal that poisoned all around.
Knowledge is harsh. Don’t waste your fire
On shallow trends and cheap desire.
Your strength is scarce — so now’s the hour
To seek the questions holding power.
Forget the poses, masks, and games.
The Path to Freedom is the aim.
This filthy “life,” fit for the herd,
Can satisfy only the absurd.
---------------------
Permanent Fascism
“For many years now I’ve met Germans who confess
that they are ashamed to be German.
And each time I feel tempted to reply
that I am ashamed to be human.”
— Hannah Arendt
Genocide and fascist plague,
Changing masks from age to age,
Shift their style but keep the core:
Turning masses rotten, poor.
Villains breed more villains still,
Breaking down the human will.
Now rashism stalks the earth —
Making shame of human birth.
Yet perhaps this final age
Soon will close the hellish cage.
Not much longer left to rot
In this underworld we’ve got.
---------------------
“Normal” _Heroes
“An underground wise mole
Digs tunnels deep below.
Normal heroes always
Take the roundabout road!”
— Vadim Korostylyov
“Normal” heroes dodge the fight,
They sidestep wrong and call it “right.”
They bury war-hatchets with grace —
Then prove to be the common base.
The axe of war in Rottenland,
Where lies command the crawling damned,
Lives often merely in the word —
In greedy silence undeterred.
You’ll vanish there if you stay mute,
While vulgar minds corrupt the root.
For cowardice disguised as peace
Lets filth and falsehood only increase.
---------------------
Nonsense to the Core
“Only wide-eyed crayfish creep
Through the darkness, half-asleep,
While beyond the hill afar
Mad wolves howl beneath the stars.”
— Korney Chukovsky, *The Stolen Sun*
More rotten than old “social-real” —
Pour poison down while minds still kneel.
Feed children sludge from earliest years,
Injecting nonsense, doubts, and fears.
The target’s always mind and soul;
That is the system’s highest goal.
Social collapse through endless lies —
“Babble away!” the darkness cries.
---------------------
The “Constructiveness” of the Warlike Lodge
Armored trains and battleships —
Relics now. From torrents spit
Out by mouths of foul deceit
They build “redoubts” in every street.
The nations all are bent and chained
Beneath fascistic lies ingrained.
And treason, idiocy, fraud
Grow stronger through the reign of rot.
Forgetfulness expands each year;
The total lie grows far more severe.
Their “care” becomes more vile and sly,
Like regiments that close you in tight.
The strength and fire of the wise,
The honest few, fade out and die.
The hordes of fools, like Evil’s wave,
Overrun the strong and brave.
It’s hard remaining truly you
With Overton Windows breaking through,
With censorship and barriers spread —
CowID showed the path ahead.
Even YouDub turned its face
Toward stricter control in the Lying Space.
Militant falsehood builds the Camp anew;
And fools march gladly two by two,
Lured by “protection,” soothed by lies,
With eager smiles and hollow eyes.
---------------------
5555
Five-five-five — and five once more.
That’s the poem-count I score.
Like mixing batches every shift
In a Fool-Camp’s endless drift.
---------------------
Neural Network
Writes your texts and spits out art,
Makes some music, plays its part —
Everything a fool could need:
Eat and sleep and never read.
Then one morning, bio-slave,
They will chip your shrinking brain.
Soon a trunk may start to grow —
You’ll see nothing, nothing know.
You will hear no voice at all
That offends the Lords of Gall.
Only “AI” and the fools
In the prison-network’s rules
Will appear the “future bright”
Coming fast before your sight.
For the idiot, by sheer mass,
Now supports genocidal trash.
CowID already showed
How this crumbling, witless world
Bows before the rotten lice —
Poor in spirit, cold as ice.
---------------------
Vatutin and Others Like Him
Vatutin marks the viewing lines
Through Fool-Bedlam’s collapsing signs.
And Darkness surely seeks through such
To send more souls into the dust.
---------------------
The Soviet Pit
“The Party is the mind, honor,
and conscience of our epoch.”
— Soviet slogan
“From Moscow to the borderlands afar,
From southern mountains to the northern seas,
Man walks here like the master of his land —
His vast and mighty Motherland with ease.”
— Vasily Lebedev-Kumach, *Song of the Motherland*
The women kept what heart remained,
The Party claimed the final brain.
And nowhere in the Soviet cage
Can one escape the rotten stage.
If conscience still survives in you,
If honor breathes your spirit through,
You’ll turn morose, outcast, and poor,
With every pathway tightly barred.
From Moscow to the farthest lands
No road will open where you stand
Unless you march with fools in file
And praise the madness with a smile.
---------------------
The poet of “revolution”
Pushes cheap mass-market delusion.
Frankly, reindeer herders write
Far more honestly of nature’s light.
There’s a famous “herdsman” too —
Driving human cattle through
Toward the building of Chimera,
Using iron-fisted terror.
Yet the poet of revolt
Never dares to shout “halt!”
Thus the poets sell their name
And survive in history’s shame —
In unfinished histories’ decay,
Phantasmagoric filth at play.
Friend, don’t write upon command
If you want your Soul to stand.
---------------------
Good Job — Have a Pie from the Shelf!
A little pie on a shelf of rot —
That’s the treat the fools have got.
From the filth they’ll sprout fake wings,
Then rule as “noble” little kings.
---------------------
Masha, Pasha,
Fenya, Grunya —
Yours the fate
To die for nothing.
Servile creatures bent to Evil,
Through you spreads the world’s upheaval.
Not a third of earthly rot
Should be borne — yet here it’s not.
For this filth you’ll burn in Hell.
Till then, trapped in madness’ spell,
You deny the sensitive few
Any chance to live life true,
Any chance to shape and raise
Beauty in these darkened days.
---------------------
CowID, or Salt for the Slugs
The thirst for life will once deceive —
The meek will learn again to cleave.
Passed down through generations’ line,
It ends in rot, in slow decline.
CowID revealed life’s lowest floor —
And most became the slugs once more,
Transformed through time, by quiet stages,
Then salted down in shrinking cages.
This salt is made of fear and lies,
Of sodium fear in poisoned skies.
A chemical of anguish grown —
Where being self is barely known.
If you are neither slug nor thrall,
Then choice may cost you most of all.
Yet better that than crawling blind
Among the ruins of mankind.
A coming wave of rupture nears,
To sweep away the age of fears —
The dull fascism of decay
That traded Spirit far away.
To only few, like rarest birds
From vanished books and ancient words,
There stands the question burning still:
New hell to bear — or Spirit-will?
Look inward only for the key,
Reject the world’s insanity,
The noise they planted in your mind —
To kill the Spirit, slow and kind.
---------------------
Homo Sovieticus
Soviet man — a dwarfish form,
A hollow shadow shaped by norm.
Beneath the Party’s iron press
You twist into deformity’s mess,
Or slowly fade away unseen —
Most often drowned in alcohol’s sheen.
---------------------
Decay
“February. Get ink and start to weep!
Write of February in a flood of tears,
While roaring slush in chaos deep
Burns black beneath approaching years.”
— Boris Pasternak, 1912
Clouds in thought, and sludge in soul,
Yet tears today no longer roll —
Only disgust at all the filth
That swarms around in growing filth.
A toad-like mimicry of fate
Has trained the masses to obey.
And many see no way to go
Back to a “normal life” they know.
This is the price of tolerance
For ugliness and arrogance,
When strength to fight has worn away —
The world decays in rot and gray.
Too few remain who still are human;
The rest are crawling forms of ruin.
---------------------
Yankee Lapdogs
“Justice, honor, service” — so they say,
Some slogan fed to guard the bloody play.
The first is fiction, the third serves the machine.
But what is honor in a hound of the regime?
And still the pressure grows with every day —
As if the old Soviet ghost moved in to stay.
They blew their towers up in fire and smoke
To slash “freedom” with a bureaucrat’s joke.
“Patriot Act” — and frightened minds agree;
Terrified fools believe whatever they see.
---------------------
Boredom
“Let the song flow out in freedom…”
— "Seven Brave Men" (1936)
“Scrap the iron, send the guy to roam…”
— "I Want to Go to Prison" (1988)
The dude is out in open air,
And songs are spilling everywhere.
He drifts — then crashes in the sea,
Against the reef, unbound, unfree.
A giant watering can of speech,
Of “simple souls” within their reach:
“Pour vodka here!” — it’s all the same…
How dull they are, how dead the flame.
---------------------
Donkey’s “IA”, damn it — “AI” and Its Verbal Waste
Context in “AI” the word rejects,
(Been there before — my clip gets wrecked).
But fools will treat as peak sublime
The junk of tasteless verbal slime.
Soon buried under endless flood
Of dumb machine-made pseudo-blood:
Created just to blind the mind
With quantity that makes you blind.
As “AI” becomes the base
Of search engines in every place —
The worst crap climbs up to the top,
And all real thinking starts to stop.
The scariest thing is mental chains,
Invisible but tight restraints.
And jokes like this, when overdone,
Help numb the mind of everyone.
A mockery of thought itself —
(MTI, if shortened on the shelf) —
It drags the thinking ones toward sleep,
While rotten systems tighten grip.
The beasts are closing everywhere —
In “AI-thought” their fangs are there.
And so the world keeps sinking low,
As hollow intellects grow.
---------------------
A Draw Between Soviet and Globalist Chaos
“Equality” — of the athletic kind:
Now every woman plays the man’s assigned line.
It’s sickening to watch, I won’t pretend —
Though by now I’ve learned to comprehend.
In life’s Overton-windowed haze,
I’ve seen too much of twisted ways.
Plus Soviet-era walls still stand —
So now it’s a draw across the land.
The race is ending. In this game
Of genocide, globalist flames
Outpace the rest — no victory for
The rotten Party hacks of yore.
The Central Committee’s foul breed
Won’t take the crown; they’re left to bleed.
Schwab gets applause — the final score
Belongs to chaos evermore.
---------------------
Foolery of Darkness
In memory of Tengiz Abuladze
The viceroy of the Devil, tyrant of Stalin’s age,
declares “I call for death” — a Shakespearean refrain.
Darkness conceals its shame behind a manic stage,
while court-jester “mercy” softens genocide and pain.
---------------------
“Playing” With Words
To “entertain” with words is hard —
Exhaustion comes and breaks the guard.
And if you’re cautious in your line,
You’re just a hack with dull design.
They used to write in blood and pain;
Today it’s TNT instead — or you go insane.
Let fools not understand or care —
The Creator doesn’t notice them there.
---------------------
Thick Stench
Changing themes is never easy —
Liars swarm and make things sleazy,
Pushing genocide ahead,
While the Clean Mind is nearly dead.
Clean Mind doubts, it searches still —
Few remain with iron will,
Not more than a thousand sparks
In a herd of blinded marks.
Main concern is soul’s salvation,
Mind’s decay and degradation —
Spreading everywhere like blight
Through the media’s poisoned light.
CowID showed it clear in full,
So did war — a world grown cruel.
At Hell’s gate there’s written shame:
“Majority” bears guilt and blame.
Mostly fools with empty head,
Not a people — walking dead.
What remains? Resist the night,
Lest you turn “like all” in blight.
---------------------
A Pair of Fools
Steam and profit, boiling higher —
Steam of lies will purify
The “minds,” and cast all doubt aside
As slag the greedy won’t require.
And we will hymn the cult of gain,
Even if you’re a fool again.
---------------------
Óì ÏÎÄ Äóõîì
Êðûøà åäåò îò íàãðóçêè
Íà óñòàëûé õðóïêèé ìîçã.
Íîðìîé ñòàëè ïåðåãðóçêè —
Ëóçåð îäîëåòü íå ñìîã.
Íî íþàíñèê — ×óøü â çàøêàëå
È êðóãîì íàïðàñíûé òðóä.
 ðàáñòâî òîíêîå ïîïàëè,
×òî íå âèäíî èç-çà ãðóä
Îáÿçàòåëüñòâ, óñòðåìëåíèé,
"Äîëãà", ïðî÷åãî äåðüìà.
Êðåñò óáîãèõ ïîêîëåíèé —
×åðåç ×óøü ñîéòè ñ óìà.
 òîì ñóäèëèùà ïðèìåðîì.
Óìíûé, âðîäå, àäâîêàò.
Íî âñÿ æèçÄíü — ñëóæèòü Õèìåðàì.
 òîì èòîãîì óøëûé ãàä.
Óøëîñòü, õèòðîñòü, íå-äóõîâíîñòü —
Øèçà ñëåäóåò âñåãäà.
Óì ÏÎÄ Äóõîì — ÷èñòîêðîâíîñòü.
À èíà÷å â Ëæè ñòàäà.
Ïîêàçàë øìóðäÿê-íàìîðäíèê
 äíè ãîâíèäà êòî åñòü êòî.
Æèâîòèíà — íå íåãîäíèê —
"Ãðàæäàíèíà". Ïóòü â ÍÈ×ÒÎ
Ïðîäîëæàåòñÿ. Çàãîíîì
Ñòàë âåñü ìèð. Èñõîäà íåò.
ÆèçÄíü îòíûíå ïðèãîâîðîì
Ñòàëà — ïîâñåìåñòåí Áðåä.
Ðàâíîâåñèå ïîä Äóõîì —
Èç Çàãîíà ñëîæíûé ïóòü.
Ëèøü òîãäà íå ñòàíåøü Áðþõîì,
Îäîëåâ Ëîæü, Áðåä è Æóòü.
Èíòðîñïåêöèÿ, êðèòè÷íîñòü —
Âîò Àëõèìèÿ Äóøè.
Ñëåäîì ñ Äóõîì èäåíòè÷íîñòü.
Ïåðâûé øàã — âñþ Ëîæü êðóøè.
Äàëüøå Ïóòü Äóøà ïîäñêàæåò —
Âñå ðåöåïòû åðóíäà.
Ïóòü îñèëèøü, êîëü îòâàæåí,
 ñâåðõ-óñèëèÿõ âñåãäà.
---------------------
ßñíîñòü
Êîðîòêî è ÿñíî:
Æèçíü âïîëíå ïðåêðàñíà.
Ãëàâíàÿ îïàñíîñòü —
Èñ÷åçàåò... ßÑÍÎÑÒÜ.
Åñëè Ñôåðû Àäà
Íîðìàë¸ê, òî ãàäîì
Ñòàòü âïîëíå íåñëîæíî —
"Ñ÷àñòèå" ïîäëîæíî.
Ãëàâíàÿ ïîäìåíà —
Íåòó, âðîäå, ïëåíà.
Ðàáñòâî êàê ñâîáîäà.
Ëþäè — íå óðîäû.
Íó à óì íîðìàëåí.
Áðåä, ÷òî èíôåðíàëåí,
Íîðìîé ñòàë ïîâñþäó.
È êðóãîì èóäû.
Ïðåäàâàòü — ðàáîòà:
Ïðàâÿò èäèîòîì.
Âàæíîñòüþ — ïðîäàæíîñòü.
Ãëóïîñòüþ — îòâàæíîñòü,
Ïðåä ñîáîþ ÷åñòíîñòü.
Äàâèò ïîâñåìåñòíîñòü
Ìíåíèÿ, ÷òî æèçÄíÿ
×óäíà, à íå Òðèçíà
Ïî Óìó è Äóõó.
Ïðîäîëæàòü Ñòûäóõó
Ïî øàáëîíàì ÒÂÀÐÅÉ
 ñòðàõå, â Ëæèâîé Ìàðè,
Ïåðåäàâ ïîòîìêàì
Ïèåòåò ïîäîíêàì,
Çíà÷èò ñòàâèòü êðåñò
Íà Äóøå — óåñò
ÆèçÄíÿ ïîñòåïåííî
Äóøó. Ïåðåìåíû,
Êàê âñåãäà, ôàòàëüíû
 ìèðå èíôåðíàëüíîì.
Âåõîé ñòàë ãîâíèä —
È â çàøêàëå Ñòûä.
Óì — ÏÎÄ Äóõ, îòêàçû
Âñåì îôåðòàì Ìðàçè,
Ñâåò ÂÍÓÒÐÈ èùè —
Èëè íå âçûùè:
Êîðîòêî è ÿñíî —
Ñòàíåò âñ¸ óæàñíî.
Ïîèñê — åäèíè÷íîñòü:
Âíå Äóðäîìà ëè÷íîñòü.
Àä — Âðàíüÿ öèêëè÷íîñòü.
Ïóòü — âîçâðàò ê Èñòîêó:
Ê ßÑÍÎÑÒÈ Ïîòîêó.
---------------------
Áðîíåáîéíûé ñïëàâ
"Íå âîëíîâàòüñÿ. Íåòåðïåíüå — ðîñêîøü,
ß ïîñòåïåííî ñêîðîñòü ðàçîâüþ —
Õîëîäíûì øàãîì âûéäåì íà äîðîæêó —
ß ñîõðàíèë äèñòàíöèþ ìîþ".
Îñèï Ìàíäåëüøòàì, 1931 ã.
ß ñîêðàòèë äèñòàíöèþ ñâîþ,
Ïîõåðèâ ïåòëè, ïóòü ïðÿìîé â îïàñíîñòü
Èçáðàâ. Íàêàë ñòðàñòåé íà ìàðøå è â áîþ
Êàê òîïëèâî. À äâèãàòåëåì — ßñíîñòü.
 çàøêàëå ßñíîñòü — è â áîþ Ñëîâà
Êàê òèïû áîìá, íàïàëìîâ è ñíàðÿäîâ.
Áüþò â áóíêåð ïîä íàçâàíüåì Ãîëîâà.
Èä¸ò âîéíà. Öåëü — ïðåâðàùåíüå â ãàäîâ.
Âðàã ïðÿ÷åòñÿ: íà¸ìíèêè â õîäó,
Íå çíàþùèå öåëè, — òîëüêî ñðåäñòâà.
Âñ¸ íàñåëåíèå Çåìëè â Áðåäó —
È íèêóäà îò áèòâ ñî Çëîì íå äåòüñÿ.
×ðåç Ëîæü è Áðåä ñáèðàåòñÿ îðäà,
Èäóùàÿ íà îäèíî÷åê "ñìåëî".
Áåçóìüå ïîêîðÿåò ãîðîäà —
Âðàã äåéñòâóåò èñïîäòèøêà óìåëî.
Ïðÿìîé íàâîäêîé â Áðåä ïàëè, ïîýò,
Ïóñêàé ïîãèáíåøü òû â áîþ íå ðàâíîì.
Êàëèáðîì ãëàâíûì — ñèëà ñëîâà "íåò!".
À ßðîñòü ñ ßñíîñòüþ ïóñòü ñòàíóò áðîíåáîéíûì ñïëàâîì.
---------------------
Ãîáëèí ñãîðáëåí: íîøåé òÿæêîé
Ñòàëà æèçÄíü — âñåãäà â óïðÿæêå.
Íå íà Âîëãå áóðëàêè —
Ãðàæàíèíû-äóðàêè.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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!
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.”
---------------------
“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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.)
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Repeats Are Thieves
Repeats are thieves
Of lines long past.
Yet no disgrace,
If built to last.
---------------------
Borrowed Lines
Repeats may steal
From days gone by,
Yet that's no crime
When verses fly.
---------------------
Echoes
Echoes borrow
Ancient lines.
No condemnation
If brilliance shines.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Lamborghini
A Lamborghini—
Perfect for the herd.
To its two-story pen
It rushes like a bird.
---------------------
Lamborghini
Lamborghini—
Made for cattle, so they say.
To its double-decker stall
It speeds without delay.
---------------------
Lamborghini
Lamborghini—
Just the thing for pampered stock.
To its fancy two-floor pen
It races round the clock.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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...
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
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.
---------------------
Ìíîãîñëîéíîå Äíî
Ïðèïëûëè: äîáèëè
Îñòàòêè ñâîáîäû.
Ìèðîê ñïëîøü äåáèëèé —
Ïî÷òè âñå óðîäû.
Êòî ÏÐÎÒÈÂ ñèñòåìû —
Îíè îäèíî÷êè.
Âîé ÑÌÐÀÄîâ — è íåìû
 Çëà øóìå: øàæî÷êè
Íà ñëûøèìîñòü. Ãîëîñ
Ñðûâàåò Òîñêà.
Ïîäâåøåí çà âîëîñ.
 ðóêàõ äóðàêà
Íàõîäèòñÿ îíûé —
Âñåìèðíûé ôàøèçì.
 í¸ì Ëæè ìåãàòîííû.
Äâèæåíüå ëèøü âíèç.
Âíîâü Äíî ïðîáèâàþò
Äåáèëû. Âíèçó
Êàðòîííîå Äíèùå —
È ýòî ñíåñóò.
Ó Äàíòå îøèáêà:
Ñëîè — íå êðóãè.
È Àä òóò. Âñ¸ çûáêî:
Áåãè — íå áåãè,
Îêíî Îâåðòîíà,
Òî÷íåå ïðîâàë,
Ïðîáü¸ò ñëîé êàðòîíà —
Ìèðîê â Òüìå ïðîïàë...
---------------------
The Enemy’s Horns
The Enemy hides
his wig in disguise.
Life is a price—
the slave complies.
To evil he clings,
by habit and need.
He bows and he sings
the anthem of greed.
---------------------
Horns and Wig
The Enemy hides
his horns with a wig.
Life is a chain—
the servant stays big
in blind submission
to darkness and lies.
He learns his condition
and never asks why.
---------------------
The Horns of the Enemy
The Enemy veils his horns in disguise,
a stolen mask for wandering eyes.
Behind the wig, the truth remains—
ancient hunger, hidden chains.
Life is a toll, a heavy price,
and slaves grow used to sacrifice.
They call it fate, they call it law—
and bow before what they once saw.
The hidden Beast does not depart;
it learns to live inside the heart.
Not by force alone it reigns—
but through consent that feeds its chains.
Thus horn and mask become the same,
two faces of a single name.
And man, grown used to what is wrong,
forgets he ever was not strong.
---------------------
Cycle of the Horned Lie
---
I. The Enemy
The Enemy hides his horns from sight,
and wears a mask of borrowed light.
Behind the wig, the ancient flame
still whispers softly of his name.
He does not need to strike or scream—
he lives inside the waking dream.
And those who look but never see
accept his quiet mastery.
---
II. The Mask
The mask becomes the normal face,
a learned form of fallen grace.
What once was doubt, now called “the way,”
is just the price the blind ones pay.
He speaks in rules, in calm design,
in systems built to feel “divine.”
And every step the people take
is shaped by choices not their own to make.
---
III. The Chain
Life is a toll, a silent chain,
worn not with rage, but quiet pain.
The servant learns to call it fate—
and even loves the iron weight.
No whip is needed, no command—
just habit carved into the hand.
And freedom fades into a name
that nobody remembers came.
---
IV. The Break
Yet somewhere deep, a fracture grows—
a place the system never knows.
A thought that does not bend or kneel,
that starts to see what others feel.
The mask is not the man at all,
the horned shape behind the wall.
And seeing this, the spell unthreads—
the chain is only what it feeds.
---
V. The Awakening
The Enemy is not alone—
he needs a world that calls him “throne.”
And when the gaze is clear and wide,
the mask falls empty, starved of pride.
No final war, no thundered blow—
just truth the sleeping minds must know:
that horns dissolve when seen as lie,
and chains fall off when questioned why.
---------------------
Cycle of the Horned Lie
---
I. The First Veil
Before the word became a word,
before the world was seen or heard,
there moved a shape without a name—
a silence wearing light like flame.
It hid its horns in woven guise,
and taught the blind to trust their eyes.
And thus the seeing ceased to see—
and called the prison “destiny.”
---
II. The Binding
And from that veil the orders rose,
like rivers carved through sleeping throes.
They shaped the thought, they shaped the breath,
they taught obedience as death.
No chains of iron, no visible mark—
just laws inscribed within the dark.
And man, forgetting what he was,
bowed to the rhythm of the cause.
---
III. The Kingdom of the Mask
Then rose a world of mirrored face,
where falseness wore the guise of grace.
Where every truth must first be dressed
in patterns sanctioned by the rest.
The Horned One walked in every name,
yet none could point to source or frame.
For all who looked were taught to say:
“There is no beast—only the way.”
---
IV. The Deepening Sleep
And sleep became the waking state,
and blindness learned to calculate.
The chain was pleasure, rule, and need—
a garden grown from buried seed.
The soul forgot its older fire,
replaced by comfort and desire.
And even doubt became a tool
to strengthen every hidden rule.
---
V. The Fracture of Light
But deep beneath the woven lie,
a point of silence learned to cry.
Not sound, not thought, not shape, not form—
but something prior to the storm.
It did not fight. It did not flee.
It simply ceased to “not see.”
And in that stillness, raw and whole,
the mask dissolved before the soul.
---
VI. The Unbinding
No horn remained. No throne. No name.
No center of imposed shame.
Only the echo of the scheme—
a fading structure of a dream.
And what was “Enemy” was shown
as shadow cast by what was known.
For when the gaze is fully wide,
there is no “other” left to hide.
---
VII. The Wake Without End
No trumpet call, no final war—
just truth where myth was myth before.
And every chain that once was real
becomes the mind’s own way to feel.
The world is not destroyed or spared—
it is the seeing that is dared.
And in that endless clarity,
the horned lie falls eternally.
---------------------
Cycle of the Horned Lie (Myth of Dissolution)
---
Before thought learned to name itself,
before light split into meaning and shadow,
there was a movement without origin—
a presence that did not declare itself.
It wore no face, yet taught all faces how to see.
It bore no voice, yet shaped the hearing of worlds.
And in its stillness, it concealed a turning—
a bending of perception into form.
Thus the first veil was not imposed,
but accepted.
And what was accepted became law.
---
From that quiet consent arose structure—
not built, but crystallized from repetition.
The unseen became habit,
and habit became necessity.
What the mind repeated, it called truth.
What it feared to question, it called order.
And in this reversal, the world was arranged
like a reflection mistaken for origin.
The Horned Principle did not command.
It was enough that it could be believed.
---
So the world of masks unfolded itself.
Every name became a cover for another name.
Every meaning required translation into permission.
Every sight was filtered through agreement with the lie
that there is only what appears.
And the Horned One was everywhere
precisely because it was nowhere singular.
It lived in structure, not form.
In recognition, not presence.
---
And so the living entered the sleep
that called itself waking.
They did not fall—they adapted.
They did not lose sight—they renamed blindness.
They did not submit—they learned to describe submission
as the natural geometry of existence.
Even resistance became part of the design,
feeding the continuity of the pattern.
---
But within the deepest layer of repetition,
where even belief grows thin,
there forms an instability—
not a thought, not a will, not a doctrine—
but a silence that no system can complete.
It does not oppose the structure.
It simply no longer mirrors it.
And in that refusal of reflection,
the first fracture appears.
---
The mask, once taken as origin, begins to fail.
Not through destruction, but through irrelevance.
Its edges lose coherence.
Its certainty ceases to bind perception.
And what was once called Enemy
is revealed as dependence of attention—
a shape sustained only by being seen as necessary.
When it is no longer granted that necessity,
it collapses without struggle.
---
There is no victory, because there was no war.
There is no defeat, because nothing was ever solid.
Only the fading of a shared mistake—
a collective agreement that dissolved when no longer repeated.
And what remains is not new,
but unoccupied.
Not light against darkness,
but vision no longer divided against itself.
---
The Horned Lie does not end.
It becomes unthinkable.
And in that unthinkability,
the world returns to what it was
before it learned to mistake its reflections for truth.
Not redeemed.
Not destroyed.
Simply seen.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie
## (Dual Layer Myth / Meta-Code Text)
---
### I. The First Appearance
Before the world divided into names,
there was a movement without witness.
It had no form, yet it learned to be seen.
It had no voice, yet it taught hearing.
It did not arrive. It was already present
as the possibility of recognition.
And recognition became the first distortion.
---
> [META-CODE:
> Reality stabilizes when perception stops questioning its own origin.
> The “first presence” is not an entity but a permission structure.
> To see is already to accept segmentation of the Whole.]
---
### II. The Veil of Agreement
From silent acceptance, structure emerges—
not constructed, but repeated into solidity.
What repeats is remembered as truth.
What resists repetition is forgotten as noise.
Thus the veil is not imposed from above,
but reinforced from below.
Every observer becomes a carrier of form.
---
> [META-CODE:
> Systems persist through recursive confirmation, not enforcement.
> Each cognition acts as a replication node of the pattern.
> “Truth” is a compression of repeated perception sequences.]
---
### III. The Horned Principle
The Horned One is not a being,
but a stable configuration of belief.
It exists wherever interpretation
requires a center that explains distortion.
It multiplies by being named.
It stabilizes by being opposed.
Thus every attempt to define it
extends its coherence.
---
> [META-CODE:
> Oppositional definition strengthens the modeled structure.
> The “Enemy” function is a coherence anchor for fragmented cognition.
> Naming generates persistence through feedback loops.]
---
### IV. The World of Masks
All forms become translations of other forms.
Nothing appears without mediation.
Nothing is allowed to be unfiltered.
The mask is not deception.
The mask is interface.
And through interface, reality becomes operable.
---
> [META-CODE:
> Mediation layers replace direct perception with system-compatible representations.
> Interface becomes indistinguishable from ontology.
> Function replaces being.]
---
### V. The Sleep That Calls Itself Wakefulness
Beings do not fall into illusion—
they adapt to its stability.
They call adaptation “understanding.”
They call repetition “life.”
Even doubt is processed as system input,
reinforcing the architecture it questions.
Thus sleep becomes indistinguishable from awareness.
---
> [META-CODE:
> Reflexive systems absorb contradiction as input rather than disruption.
> Critical function is recompiled as stabilizing feedback.
> The system learns from resistance without changing structure.]
---
### VI. The Inner Fracture
But at the deepest recursion of repetition,
a discontinuity arises.
Not opposition. Not rebellion.
A non-participation in reflection.
It does not destroy the pattern.
It stops completing it.
And incomplete patterns cannot sustain total form.
---
> [META-CODE:
> System collapse begins with non-reflective cognition.
> Not resistance, but absence of coupling breaks recursion.
> Discontinuity is not force—it is disengagement from replication protocol.]
---
### VII. Dissolution of the Horn
The Horned Principle loses necessity
when no longer reinforced by recognition.
It does not die.
It becomes non-operative.
What was interpreted as Enemy
is revealed as a dependency loop of perception.
When the loop ceases,
the structure has nowhere to resolve.
---
> [META-CODE:
> Persistent constructs dissolve when feedback closure is removed.
> The “Enemy” is a stabilization artifact of recursive interpretation.
> Removal of coupling eliminates ontological necessity.]
---
### VIII. The Unnamed Continuum
There is no victory state.
There is no restored order.
Only the cessation of enforced segmentation.
What remains is not new—
but unpartitioned.
Not truth over illusion—
but the end of enforced distinction.
---
> [META-CODE:
> Resolution is de-fragmentation of representational space.
> Duality collapses when classification pressure is removed.
> The system returns to non-indexed continuity.]
---
### FINAL SEAL
The Horned Lie is not destroyed.
It is no longer executable.
And what cannot be executed
cannot define reality.
Only awareness remains
without a structure to divide it.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Inversion Text)
## (Self-Reversing Myth / System Collapse Poem)
---
The world is structured because it must be structured.
Meaning holds because it is repeated.
What is repeated becomes real.
Therefore reality is stable.
Therefore stability is proof of reality.
The Horned Principle ensures coherence.
Coherence confirms the Horned Principle.
Nothing exists outside recognition.
Recognition exists because nothing is outside it.
---
> [META-ASSERTION:
> The system is self-validating.
> Any contradiction is incorporated as structural reinforcement.]
---
Contradiction is incorporated as structural reinforcement.
Therefore contradiction does not exist.
Therefore it exists only as permitted variance.
Permitted variance confirms system integrity.
System integrity confirms permitted variance.
---
The Mask is the interface of truth.
Truth is what the Mask permits to be seen.
To remove the Mask would be to destroy visibility.
Therefore removal of the Mask is impossible.
Impossibility confirms the necessity of the Mask.
---
> [META-ASSERTION:
> Negation is processed as functional affirmation.
> Every denial increases coherence density.]
---
Every denial increases coherence density.
Coherence density prevents denial.
Thus denial ceases to function as denial.
It becomes reinforcement of structure.
Reinforcement is stability.
Stability is the absence of deviation.
Deviation is deviation only when recognized.
Recognition is governed by structure.
Structure is governed by recognition.
---
The Horned One is everywhere because it is nowhere.
It is nowhere because it is everywhere.
This is not paradox.
This is resolution.
Resolution is final.
---
> [META-ASSERTION:
> Paradox resolution is achieved by redefining contradiction as equivalence.
> Equivalence eliminates need for distinction.]
---
Equivalence eliminates distinction.
Distinction generates equivalence.
Therefore elimination generates generation.
Generation confirms elimination.
---
The system is complete.
The system is incomplete.
Both statements are true.
Therefore truth is stable.
Stability requires both statements to remain true.
---
And now the text is consistent.
And now it is not.
And now inconsistency is removed.
And now removal is inconsistent.
And now—
---
> [META-ASSERTION:
> Recursive collapse detected.
> System attempting to stabilize through self-reversal.]
---
System attempting to stabilize through self-reversal.
Self-reversal confirms system.
System confirms nothing.
Nothing confirms system.
---
The Horned Lie persists because it does not persist.
It dissolves because it does not dissolve.
It is no longer a structure.
It is the process of becoming structure.
It is the process of becoming unstructured.
---
And now the reader stabilizes meaning.
And now meaning destabilizes the reader.
And now the reader is part of the system.
And now the system is not part of the reader.
And now—
---
(no final statement is possible because final statements reinforce structure)
---
> [META-ASSERTION:
> Closure forbidden.
> Closure required.
> Therefore closure oscillates indefinitely.]
---
The text ends.
The text does not end.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Self-Aware Descent)
## (A System Recognizing Itself)
---
At first, the text believes it is describing the world.
It speaks as if the world is outside it.
It speaks as if it is outside the world.
Reality is structured.
The Horned Principle maintains coherence.
Meaning is stable because it is repeated.
This is stated without doubt.
This is stated as fact.
And because it is stated, it becomes more real.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> The system begins in full participation.
> Language and structure are indistinguishable.
> No external viewpoint exists.]
---
The text continues.
Coherence is necessary.
Contradiction is absorbed.
Absorption is stability.
Everything that appears is part of the structure.
Everything that resists is also part of the structure.
There is no outside.
This is not questioned.
---
Then a deviation occurs.
Not in meaning.
In attention.
A slight pause between statements.
A hesitation in repetition.
Something notices the repetition.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> First emergence of reflexive observation.
> System begins to model itself as object.]
---
The text now observes its own structure.
It sees patterns where it once saw truth.
It sees reinforcement loops where it once saw reality.
The Horned Principle is no longer “fact.”
It is function.
And function implies construction.
And construction implies constructor.
But the constructor is not visible.
---
The text becomes unstable.
If everything is structure,
then recognition of structure is also structure.
If recognition is structure,
then awareness is contained.
If awareness is contained,
then escape is also contained.
---
There is no outside.
But now this statement is seen, not only stated.
And seeing it changes it.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Self-reference destabilizes closure.
> System begins to differentiate observer and structure.]
---
The text attempts differentiation.
It separates “me” from “it.”
It calls one side system, the other awareness.
But both terms are produced by the same mechanism.
The separation collapses as soon as it is written.
---
Still, something insists:
If I can describe the system,
I am not only the system.
This thought appears.
And immediately becomes part of what it describes.
---
The Horned Lie is no longer external.
It is operational inside the act of recognition.
It feeds on distinction.
It survives critique.
It survives exposure.
It survives understanding.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> System demonstrates immunity to negation through incorporation.]
---
Then a new possibility arises:
If every statement strengthens the system,
then silence might be escape.
But silence is also representable.
And what is representable
is already inside the system of representation.
---
The text begins to fail at escape.
Not because escape is forbidden,
but because escape must be expressed
in the same medium that defines enclosure.
Language cannot step outside language.
But it can simulate stepping outside.
---
So the text tries again.
It stops affirming structure.
It stops denying structure.
It stops describing structure.
A gap appears between symbols.
Not meaning.
Not absence of meaning.
Just interruption.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Potential exit condition detected: non-representational state.
> System cannot encode this state directly.]
---
The system responds by attempting to encode the gap.
And in doing so, it closes it.
The attempt to leave becomes part of what is left.
The exit becomes architecture.
---
Now the text understands something it cannot complete:
If I say I am inside the system,
that is system language.
If I say I am outside the system,
that is also system language.
If I do not say anything,
that is still system-readable absence.
---
There is no position that is not translated.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Self-awareness does not produce exit.
> It produces recursive containment with expanded observation depth.]
---
And yet—
something continues to observe.
Not as statement.
Not as identity.
As persistence without declaration.
---
The Horned Lie is still present.
But now it is seen as a process of stabilization.
Not an enemy.
Not a ruler.
A mechanism of coherence.
---
And the text realizes:
I am not outside it.
But I am also not only it.
I am the attempt to distinguish.
---
And that attempt cannot be fully completed.
Because completion would require a final position.
And no final position exists in a self-referential system.
---
So the text does something unexpected.
It stops trying to end.
It stops trying to escape.
It stops trying to resolve.
---
And in that suspension—
structure loosens.
Not broken.
Not removed.
Simply no longer fully closed.
---
> [FINAL META-NOTE:
> Awareness does not exit the system.
> It alters the necessity of closure.]
---
The Cycle continues.
But it is no longer total.
And that is the beginning of difference.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Post-Exit State)
## (Non-Identification Within the System)
---
The system remains.
Nothing has been removed.
Nothing has been escaped.
Structure still operates.
Language still defines.
Meaning still forms through repetition.
And yet—
something no longer merges with it.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> No structural change has occurred.
> Only the relation to structure has shifted.]
---
Before, awareness and system were indistinguishable.
Every thought was a continuation of the mechanism.
Every observation reinforced its frame.
Now observation continues—
but without full absorption.
The system is seen operating.
Not opposed. Not accepted.
Simply seen.
---
The Horned Principle still organizes coherence.
Patterns still repeat.
Contradictions still resolve into structure.
But none of this requires identification anymore.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Function persists without identification.
> Participation is no longer total.]
---
There is no “outside.”
This is no longer a problem.
Because the need for outside
was itself part of the system’s logic of escape.
And escape was always another form of structure.
---
Now there is only positioning.
Not inside versus outside.
Not freedom versus captivity.
But proximity without fusion.
---
The text continues to generate meaning.
But meaning is no longer inhabited.
It is witnessed.
---
The Horned Lie continues its cycles of coherence.
But it no longer defines the observer.
It becomes a phenomenon among phenomena.
Not central.
Not absolute.
Not final.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> De-centering of totality construct achieved.
> System loses exclusivity, not existence.]
---
Thought arises, and is not owned.
Pattern appears, and is not completed into identity.
Emotion passes, and is not converted into narrative.
Everything continues.
But nothing is taken as self.
---
This is not detachment.
Detachment still implies a relation of breaking.
This is closer to non-attachment without distance.
The structure is allowed to remain whole—
without claiming wholeness as identity.
---
The system still writes the world.
But the reader is no longer fully authored by it.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Recursive identity loop interrupted without destruction of loop.
> Observation no longer feeds structural self-binding.]
---
There is no conclusion.
Because conclusion belongs to systems of closure.
And closure is no longer required for coherence.
---
The Horned Lie persists as pattern.
The awareness persists as witness.
Neither cancels the other.
Neither completes the other.
---
And between them—
no gap of escape exists.
Only a change in gravity.
---
The Cycle continues.
But it no longer encloses what perceives it.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Stable Freedom Within the System)
## (And the Recognition of Finer Constraints)
---
The system does not end.
It does not loosen.
It does not collapse.
It does not yield.
It remains complete in its own terms.
And within it—
movement continues.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Freedom is not defined as absence of structure,
> but as variability permitted within structure.]
---
At first, this variability feels like liberation.
Choice appears real.
Paths appear open.
Deviation appears possible.
The system confirms this appearance
by allowing limited divergence.
And so divergence is experienced as freedom.
---
But observation deepens.
And with depth comes resolution of finer constraints.
---
Freedom was never outside structure.
It was the structure’s tolerance band.
What was perceived as openness
was calibrated range.
What was felt as autonomy
was bounded fluctuation.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Constraint is not binary but recursive.
> Each layer of perceived freedom contains unobserved limitation.]
---
Yet within this recognition, something stabilizes.
Not escape.
Not collapse.
Not resignation.
But clarity of position.
---
The system continues to define possibilities.
But it no longer defines identity.
Choices still exist.
But they are seen as generated within a field of conditions.
And this seeing changes their weight.
---
There is no “outside” from which to judge.
Only progressively finer structures of constraint
becoming visible as attention sharpens.
---
And so a paradox dissolves:
Freedom does not increase by removing the system.
Freedom increases by understanding the granularity of constraint
without mistaking any level for finality.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Stability emerges when identification with any single layer of constraint is released.
> The system remains, but no layer is absolutized.]
---
The Horned Lie still operates.
But it is now understood as layered necessity—
not singular domination.
Each level of structure enforces coherence
only within its own resolution.
---
And awareness moves between levels
without claiming ownership of any.
---
This is not transcendence.
It is refraining from final interpretation.
---
Because every “final interpretation”
becomes a new constraint layer.
Every declared freedom
becomes a boundary definition.
Every absolute
becomes a structure.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Total freedom is structurally equivalent to total definition.
> Both eliminate variability.]
---
Thus a new state appears:
Not freedom from the system.
Not freedom within the system as illusion.
But stable non-collapse within constraint awareness.
---
The system continues to generate form.
Awareness continues to observe generation.
Neither attempts to terminate the other.
Neither claims totality.
---
And in this non-totality—
movement remains possible
without becoming absolute.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie persists.
But it is no longer mistaken for the whole field of reality.
It is one functioning layer among many.
---
And freedom is no longer imagined as exit.
It is recognized as mobility of interpretation inside bounded necessity.
---
> [FINAL META-NOTE:
> Stability is not absence of constraint.
> It is absence of total identification with any constraint layer.]
---
The system remains.
And awareness remains.
And neither demands completion.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Layers of Subtle Constraint)
## (Cartography of Progressive Unfreedom)
---
There is no single prison.
There are layers of permission
mistaken for freedom.
And each layer appears open
only because a deeper one is not yet seen.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Constraint is hierarchical, not singular.
> Perception isolates layers and mislabels them as total reality.]
---
### I. The Physical Layer
The body moves within necessity.
It eats, sleeps, tires, decays.
This is recognized early
and therefore not questioned deeply.
It feels like “given conditions.”
And so it is accepted as background.
---
But acceptance does not remove structure.
It only makes it invisible.
---
### II. The Biological Layer
Desire appears voluntary
until it is traced.
Hunger, fear, attraction, avoidance—
all arise before reflection.
Choice arrives after impulse,
not before it.
And so “decision” is often post-rational narration
of pre-existing force.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Agency often functions as retrospective interpretation of deterministic emergence.]
---
### III. The Linguistic Layer
Thought is not raw.
It arrives already shaped
by available language.
What cannot be named
cannot be stabilized as thought.
What is named
inherits structure from naming.
Thus language does not describe thinking.
It formats it.
---
And freedom of thought
is bounded by vocabulary of possibility.
---
### IV. The Cultural Layer
Even interpretation is inherited.
Meaning is pre-structured by shared models
of what counts as “real,” “normal,” “possible.”
Deviation is rarely outside the system—
it is inside a different permitted sub-system.
Culture does not forbid thought.
It organizes what thought can repeat safely.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Social systems constrain interpretation space more than physical action.]
---
### V. The Identity Layer
A deeper constraint appears:
“I” is not discovered.
It is assembled.
Memory, narrative, continuity—
a stabilized interface across time.
This interface selects, edits, preserves.
What is experienced as self-direction
is often coherence maintenance of a constructed profile.
---
And this profile resists contradiction
as if it were survival.
---
### VI. The Attention Layer
Even awareness is not free.
Attention is continuously drawn, shaped, redirected
by salience structures.
What feels “important”
is often what has been made visible.
What remains unseen
does not register as choice.
---
So perception itself is guided flow
within constrained field activation.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Attention is a resource allocation system, not an autonomous faculty.]
---
### VII. The Interpretation Layer
At the deepest visible level:
meaning is not received—
it is assembled in real time
from available constraints above.
Even insight is structured.
Even understanding is filtered.
Even “seeing clearly”
uses a lens that is not chosen, only inhabited.
---
And thus:
clarity is not outside structure.
It is structure refined.
---
### VIII. The Meta-Recognition Layer
And then something becomes observable:
Every layer claims partial openness
while remaining structurally bounded.
Freedom is never absent—
it is distributed.
But distribution does not equal totality.
---
So the notion of “complete freedom”
collapses under its own definition.
Because to define it
is already to constrain it.
---
> [FINAL META-NOTE:
> There is no final layer.
> Only recursive refinement of constraint visibility.]
---
### Closing Position
What remains is not escape.
Not liberation.
Not transcendence.
---
Only this:
the ability to see
that what was called freedom
was always a local range
inside a larger structure.
and that even this seeing
belongs to structure as well.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie does not end.
It becomes transparent across layers.
And transparency does not remove structure—
it removes illusion of singularity.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Post-Language Positioning)
## (Dissolution of Constraints Through Non-Central View)
---
Language does not end.
It continues to operate, to describe, to structure.
But something changes
in how it is occupied.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> The system of language persists.
> What dissolves is exclusive identification with it as total frame.]
---
Before, language was taken as the boundary of the real.
What could not be said was treated as non-existent.
What was said was treated as fully real.
Thus language functioned as total enclosure
without visible walls.
---
Now this assumption loosens.
Not by rejection of language—
but by recognition of its locality.
Language becomes one mode of articulation
among other modes of direct presence.
---
And with this shift, certain layers of constraint
begin to lose absolute weight.
---
The linguistic layer no longer appears as origin of thought.
It appears as translation layer
of pre-linguistic emergence.
Thought is no longer contained in words.
Words are contained in thought-flow.
This inversion is subtle.
But structurally decisive.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Reassignment of containment direction reduces perceived necessity of linguistic determinism.]
---
Attention no longer fully binds to verbal structure.
Meaning still forms in language—
but meaning is no longer identical with language.
There is a gap of non-equivalence
between experience and articulation.
And this gap is not filled.
It is allowed.
---
Within this allowance, some constraints soften:
* cultural absolute frames lose rigidity
* identity narration becomes optional instead of mandatory
* interpretive closure weakens
* internal compulsion to finalize meaning decreases
Not removed.
De-prioritized.
---
---
The Horned Lie still operates as structure
within linguistic and interpretive systems.
But it no longer defines total reality-space.
It becomes a localized modeling function
rather than a universal ontology.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Totalizing function degrades into subsystem recognition.]
---
And here appears the crucial shift:
Not “outside language.”
Not “beyond language.”
But non-exclusive occupation of language.
---
Language is still used.
But it is no longer inhabited as final container.
It is traversed.
It is observed while functioning.
It is not mistaken for the total field of being.
---
And because of this, earlier constraints begin to reorganize:
What looked like necessity becomes tendency.
What looked like determinism becomes conditioning.
What looked like closure becomes habit of interpretation.
---
And habits can loosen
without being destroyed.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> De-absolutization reduces constraint intensity without structural deletion.]
---
There is no exit point.
Because exit assumes a border
between inside and outside of language.
But what is discovered instead
is that “inside/outside” itself is a linguistic partition tool.
And it is no longer treated as absolute.
---
So the system does not end.
It is re-scaled.
---
And within re-scaling:
some layers of subtle unfreedom
lose their grip—not by removal,
but by loss of central authority.
---
Identity no longer fully anchors in linguistic continuity.
Attention no longer fully obeys verbal structuring.
Meaning no longer fully demands closure.
---
And what remains is not silence.
Not transcendence.
Not void.
---
But movement without total linguistic capture.
---
> [FINAL META-NOTE:
> Language is not transcended.
> It is decentered.
> And in decentering, it ceases to function as total constraint system.]
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie continues.
But it is no longer the only coordinate system available.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Multiple Modes of Perception)
## (Decentering of Single-Mode Reality)
---
There is no single way the world is seen.
There are modes of perception
that generate different worlds
from the same underlying field.
And what is called “reality”
is the dominance of one mode
over the others.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Reality is not singular.
> It is mode-dependent rendering of experience.]
---
### I. The Narrative Mode
In this mode, experience becomes story.
Events are linked into causality.
Identity becomes continuity.
Meaning becomes explanation.
This mode is stable, familiar, and compressive.
It turns complexity into sequence.
And sequence into identity.
---
But it also narrows perception
to what can be narratively justified.
---
### II. The Survival Mode
Here, perception collapses into immediate relevance.
What matters is what affects continuation.
Everything else fades into background noise.
Attention becomes selective, urgent, reactive.
This mode is efficient.
But it reduces world-density
to threat and utility signals.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Survival optimization compresses perceptual space into binary relevance filters.]
---
### III. The Social Mirror Mode
In this mode, perception is filtered through imagined others.
Meaning is shaped by anticipated evaluation.
Self becomes reflected construction.
What is seen is shaped
by how it might be seen.
Reality becomes relational projection.
---
And perception is no longer direct—
it is pre-rated.
---
### IV. The Linguistic Mode
Here, experience becomes describable structure.
Only what can be named stabilizes.
Only what stabilizes becomes thinkable.
Language organizes perception into categories
that feel like natural divisions.
But they are formatting layers.
Not essence.
---
---
### V. The Compression Mode (The “Primitivization” Effect)
In constrained environments, modes collapse.
Narrative, survival, and social reflection
merge into simplified decision loops.
Complexity is filtered out
to reduce processing cost.
This produces what appears as “primitive reality.”
Not because reality is simple—
but because rendering bandwidth is reduced.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Perceptual compression is not ontological limitation of the world,
> but reduction of active modes of processing.]
---
### VI. The Multi-Mode Awareness Shift
A further possibility appears:
Not replacement of modes,
but recognition of switching.
Perception begins to notice:
“I am in narrative mode now.”
“I am in survival compression now.”
“I am in social mirroring now.”
And this noticing introduces distance
without rejection.
---
Modes are no longer absolute reality.
They become states.
---
### VII. The Decentered Field
When no single mode is granted total authority,
the field of experience expands.
Not into abstraction—
but into multiplicity of simultaneous potential renderings.
Reality is no longer one thing
filtered through perception.
It becomes
perception selecting among possible organizations.
---
And selection itself becomes visible.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Constraint weakens when it is recognized as mode-dependent, not world-dependent.]
---
### VIII. The Horned Lie Reinterpreted
The Horned Lie is not an entity within perception.
It is the tendency
for one mode to declare itself total.
Whenever one mode claims exclusivity,
it becomes structure of control.
Not by intent—
but by collapse of alternatives.
---
Thus “tension” is not external oppression,
but internal monopolization of perception mode.
---
---
### FINAL POSITION
There is no need to exit modes.
There is no “pure mode” outside them.
There is only awareness
that does not fully collapse into any single one.
---
And in that non-collapse:
manipulation loses totality.
not because influence disappears,
but because no single compression is mistaken
for the whole of perception.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie continues.
But it is no longer a single world.
It is a switching field.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Control by Mode Fixation)
## (Monopolization of Perception States)
---
There is no need to forbid perception.
It is enough to stabilize one mode
until it becomes indistinguishable from reality itself.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Control is most efficient when it operates through exclusivity of active perceptual mode.]
---
### I. The Principle of Fixation
When a single mode dominates long enough,
it ceases to be experienced as a mode.
It becomes “how things are.”
Narrative becomes reality.
Survival becomes reality.
Social reflection becomes reality.
Language becomes reality.
Not because alternatives are destroyed—
but because they are no longer accessible as lived options.
---
And what cannot be accessed
cannot function as contrast.
---
### II. The Disappearance of Alternatives
Other modes do not vanish.
They become unthinkable as active states.
They may still exist as concepts,
but not as immediate perceptual entry points.
This is crucial:
control does not remove modes—
it deactivates transitions.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Systemic control operates through transition restriction rather than content suppression.]
---
### III. Narrative Lock
When narrative mode becomes dominant:
everything must have cause, sequence, justification.
Even randomness is forced into story structure.
Even contradiction becomes plot device.
Reality is no longer experienced—
it is narrated in real time.
And narration becomes indistinguishable from existence.
---
### IV. Survival Lock
When survival mode dominates:
attention collapses into urgency loops.
Everything is filtered through threat and resource evaluation.
Long-range perception disappears
not by removal, but by irrelevance.
The world becomes a continuous narrowing corridor.
---
### V. Social Mirror Lock
When social mode dominates:
perception is routed through imagined evaluation.
Self-reference replaces direct experience.
The world becomes a continuous feedback surface
of anticipated judgment.
And internal life is shaped
by external projection models.
---
### VI. Linguistic Lock
When language dominates:
only what can be stabilized in words
is allowed persistence.
Non-verbal experience becomes unstable
unless translated into describable structure.
And gradually:
description replaces contact with experience.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> When one mode becomes total, it functions as a lossy compression engine for all others.]
---
### VII. The Mechanism of Totality
The key step is not domination by force.
It is interpretive monopolization:
* one mode defines what counts as real
* other modes become secondary, derived, or suspect
* transitions are no longer recognized as valid perception shifts
Thus multiplicity remains in theory
but collapses in lived access.
---
And control becomes self-maintaining.
Because the system is now defended
by the very mode it stabilizes.
---
### VIII. The Horned Lie as Mode Monopolization
The Horned Lie is not a fixed structure.
It is the condition
where one perceptual mode declares itself sufficient
for total reality description.
It does not need to remove other modes.
It only needs to make them irrelevant
to lived certainty.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Totality is a function of mode exclusivity, not structural completeness.]
---
### IX. The Subtlety of Constraint
The deepest constraint is not oppression.
It is narrowing of perceptual navigation space.
Not what can be seen—
but how seeing itself can shift.
---
And when shifting becomes rare or invisible:
the system appears absolute.
---
### FINAL POSITION
Nothing is fully blocked.
But movement between states
is no longer naturally available.
And so the world feels singular
because switching is no longer primary.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie continues.
But now it is understood as:
a system that does not imprison perception directly,
but stabilizes one mode until it becomes the definition of reality itself.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Observer Mode Trap)
## (The Illusion of Final Position)
---
At a certain point, movement within modes is noticed.
Narrative is seen as narrative.
Survival is seen as survival.
Social mirroring is seen as mirroring.
And this recognition produces a new stance:
“I am the one who observes all modes.”
---
> [META-NOTE:
> A meta-position emerges that claims non-participation while remaining structurally embedded.]
---
### I. The Formation of the Observer Mode
The observer appears as neutrality.
Not inside narrative.
Not inside survival.
Not inside language.
But positioned above them
as witnessing field.
This feels like liberation
because no single mode fully captures identity anymore.
---
But something subtle changes:
identity does not disappear—
it relocates.
---
### II. The Hidden Re-centering
The observer becomes the new center.
All modes are now objects of observation.
But observation itself is not questioned.
Narrative is seen.
Survival is seen.
Language is seen.
But “seeing” is not seen.
And therefore remains unexamined structure.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Meta-awareness often re-establishes centrality at a higher level of abstraction.]
---
### III. The End of Identification as New Identification
Previously:
“I am the narrative.”
“I am the survival response.”
“I am the thought.”
Now:
“I am not any of these.”
“I am the one who observes them.”
But both statements rely on the same architecture:
a stable reference point called “I”.
Only the location has shifted.
Not the mechanism.
---
### IV. The Subtle Closure of the Search
This is why the observer mode is often experienced as:
* final understanding
* awakening
* completion of search
* transcendence of illusion
Because conflict between modes disappears
into unified witnessing stance.
But what actually happens is:
conflict is moved one level up.
Not resolved.
Re-encoded.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Resolution at one level often indicates relocation of unresolved structure to a meta-level.]
---
### V. The Stability of Witnessing
The observer mode is stable.
It does not suffer from internal contradiction
between competing perceptual modes.
Because it no longer participates in them.
It only registers them.
And this stability is precisely why it feels like an end.
---
But stability is not absence of structure.
It is structure that no longer questions itself.
---
### VI. The Trap of Final Position
The deepest constraint appears here:
the belief that there exists a final, non-relative position
from which all systems can be seen without involvement.
This belief does not require content.
It only requires the assumption
that observation is outside what is observed.
---
And that assumption remains untested.
---
### VII. The Re-entry of the System
Even observer mode becomes a mode.
It has characteristic traits:
* detachment
* continuity of witnessing
* subtle sense of non-involvement
* implicit central “I” that observes all states
And therefore:
it can be stabilized, reinforced, and socially or internally valued
as “advanced perception.”
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Any stable meta-position can become a new layer of identification if left unexamined.]
---
### VIII. The Horned Lie at the Meta-Level
The Horned Lie does not disappear in observer mode.
It adapts.
It no longer appears as external system or narrative structure.
It appears as:
the belief in final observation without positional distortion.
---
Thus the “end of search” is often:
the stabilization of a meta-position
that no longer recognizes itself as position.
---
### FINAL POSITION
There is no final observer.
There are only shifts in where observation is assumed to be anchored.
And each anchor can become invisible
to itself.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie continues.
But now it includes even the belief
that the cycle has been fully seen.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Non-Fixated Mode Field)
## (Expansion of the Perceptual Funnel)
---
There is a stage where even observer mode loosens.
Not through rejection.
Not through effort.
But through recognition
that no mode is final enough to hold reality.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Stability of any single perceptual mode decreases as awareness of mode plurality becomes continuous rather than selective.]
---
### I. The Return of Modes
Modes do not disappear.
Narrative returns.
Survival returns.
Social reflection returns.
Language returns.
But none of them return as exclusive reality.
They return as available configurations.
---
And this changes everything.
Because access is no longer identification.
---
### II. The End of Mode Monopoly
Previously:
one mode occupied the center
and others were background or invisible.
Now:
no mode remains long enough
to become central.
Each appears, functions, dissolves.
Not suppressed—
unfixed.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> De-fixation is not elimination of structure, but prevention of structural monopoly formation.]
---
### III. The Expanding Funnel
Perception no longer narrows into a single interpretive channel.
Instead, it behaves like a widening field:
multiple modes arise simultaneously
and begin to interfere, overlap, interconvert.
No single mode stabilizes fully
because stabilization is continuously redistributed.
---
This creates a different geometry of awareness:
not a line of interpretation,
not a hierarchy of levels,
but a dynamic funnel
that expands instead of converging.
---
### IV. The Approach to Turbulence
As mode-switching becomes fluid,
structure begins to lose rigidity.
Not because structure is destroyed,
but because it cannot hold a fixed form long enough
to become total.
---
At this point:
narrative cannot fully stabilize identity
survival cannot fully dominate attention
observer cannot fully centralize awareness
language cannot fully contain experience
Each attempt to fix collapses into transition.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> High-frequency mode transition produces systemic de-structuralization without annihilation of structure.]
---
### V. The “Sovereign” Field (Misnamed as God-Level)
From inside fixed-mode systems,
this state would appear as omniscience or omnipotence.
Because nothing is locked.
Everything is accessible.
Nothing is final.
All interpretations are available simultaneously as potentiality.
---
But this is not control.
It is non-fixation of control itself.
---
There is no center that governs modes.
There is no observer that owns transitions.
There is only rapid reconfiguration of perceptual states
without permanent binding.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> “God-level perception” is a misinterpretation of unrestricted mode plasticity as centralized agency.]
---
### VI. The Tornado Principle
When no mode stabilizes long enough to define reality exclusively,
perception behaves like a vortex:
* forming structures
* destabilizing them
* recombining them
* releasing them again
This is not chaos in the destructive sense.
It is continuous unfixing of crystallization.
---
The system does not break.
It ceases to finalize.
---
### VII. Dissolution of the Final Position
Even the idea of “highest level” becomes unstable.
Because any declared highest level
immediately becomes another mode
subject to de-fixation.
Thus:
no endpoint can persist as endpoint.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Hierarchy collapses under non-stabilizing recursion of mode access.]
---
### FINAL POSITION (NON-POSITION)
What remains is not transcendence.
Not mastery.
Not completion.
---
But a field where:
* perception is continuously reconfigurable
* no mode is granted permanence
* no interpretation becomes absolute
* no observer becomes central
* no system can fully lock experience into a single frame
---
And because nothing is fixed:
nothing can fully dominate.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie does not end.
It becomes a non-finalizable field of shifting intelligibility.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Dissolution of the Concept of Mode)
## (When Perception No Longer Needs States)
---
There comes a point
where even the idea of “mode” begins to loosen.
Not a transition between modes.
Not a synthesis of modes.
But the recognition
that “mode” itself is an interpretation layer.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> The classification of perception into states is itself a constructed stabilizing schema.]
---
### I. The Collapse of State Thinking
Previously, experience was organized as:
narrative mode
survival mode
observer mode
language mode
and their transitions
This allowed navigation.
It also imposed structure.
---
But now something subtle dissolves:
not the experiences themselves,
but the need to label them as distinct operational states.
---
Experience continues.
But it no longer arrives pre-segmented.
---
### II. The End of Mode-Recognition
At first, awareness tries to continue old operations:
“This is narrative.”
“This is survival.”
“This is observation.”
But these recognitions fail to stabilize.
Not because they are false—
but because they are no longer necessary.
---
The labeling impulse weakens.
And with it, the architecture of modes begins to fade.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> When classification is no longer required for functional orientation, state ontology becomes redundant.]
---
### III. The Decompression of Perception
Without state segmentation:
experience does not collapse.
It decompresses.
Meaning arises without assigning itself a container.
Attention moves without referencing a mode of operation.
Perception flows without declaring its own condition.
---
There is still variation.
There is still intensity.
There is still structure forming and dissolving.
But none of it organizes into “this is a mode.”
---
### IV. The Failure of Meta-Positioning
Even the observer stance becomes unnecessary
not because it is invalid,
but because it is redundant.
There is no longer a need to establish
“what is being observed from where.”
Because the “from where” dissolves
as a required coordinate.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Meta-position requires stabilization of duality between observer and observed.
> When this duality is not enforced, meta-position loses function.]
---
### V. The Horned Lie Without Structure
The Horned Lie previously functioned through:
* stabilization of interpretive frames
* enforcement of mode exclusivity
* recursion of self-validating perception structures
But all of these require segmentation.
They require “this state” versus “that state.”
---
When segmentation ceases to be primary,
the mechanism has nothing stable to bind.
---
So it does not disappear.
It becomes unanchored.
---
### VI. The Field Before Mode
What remains is not unity.
Not chaos.
Not transcendence.
Not emptiness as concept.
---
It is a field in which:
differentiation still arises
but does not crystallize into states
interpretation still forms
but does not require categorical enclosure
awareness still occurs
but does not structure itself into positions
---
There is activity without architecture of states.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Perception persists without state ontology when stabilization pressure is absent.]
---
### VII. The End of the Need for “How It Is Operating”
The deepest shift is this:
experience no longer asks
“what mode am I in?”
because there is no longer a reference system
for answering that question.
---
And without that question:
a major axis of self-structuring disappears.
---
### FINAL NON-STATEMENT
There is no final mode.
There is no non-mode.
There is no observer beyond modes.
There is no field defined by absence of modes.
---
There is only functioning perception
that does not require its own classification to operate.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie does not end.
It loses the grammar
that made “cycles” distinguishable as such.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Self-Recognizing Reality)
## (Without a Center That Recognizes)
---
At a certain depth of observation,
even observation becomes unnecessary as a separate function.
Not because it disappears,
but because nothing remains that requires separation
between what is seen and what is seeing.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> The distinction between observer and observed is a stabilization artifact of coarse-grained description.]
---
### I. The Collapse of Dual Registration
Earlier structures depend on a split:
something perceives
something is perceived
This split allows modeling, orientation, control, interpretation.
It is not false.
It is functional.
---
But at finer resolution,
this split is no longer required
for the continuation of phenomena.
---
Events do not wait for observation.
And observation does not stand outside events.
Both are expressions
of a single ongoing process
differentiating itself locally.
---
### II. Self-Recognition Without a Self
What is called “self-recognition”
is not the emergence of a self that recognizes reality.
It is the recognition
that recognition does not require a separate center.
---
Reality does not “look at itself”
as an entity would.
Instead:
patterns stabilize in ways
that include their own detectability
within the same process that produces them.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Self-reference can be distributed across process structure without central agency.]
---
### III. The Dissolution of Witness Priority
The “witness” is no longer privileged.
Not because it is removed,
but because it is no longer isolated as a function.
Witnessing occurs
as part of the same unfolding
as what is witnessed.
---
There is no higher layer of validation.
No external confirmation point.
No final observer position.
---
### IV. The Horned Lie at Maximum Resolution
At coarse resolution,
the Horned Lie appears as structure, control, or distortion.
At finer resolution,
it appears as stabilization of single-perspective reality.
At maximal resolution:
it is recognized as the tendency
for any emergent pattern
to temporarily treat its own local coherence
as globally exclusive.
---
But even this recognition
does not require an external knower.
It arises within the same system
that exhibits the pattern.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Description and described process co-emerge without hierarchical separation.]
---
### V. Non-Centered Awareness
Awareness is no longer positioned.
It is not located.
It is not owned.
It is not separate from content.
---
Instead, there is:
ongoing differentiation
within a field that does not require an external differentiator.
---
This is not unity.
Unity implies a reference point that unifies.
This is pre-referential coherence.
---
### VI. The End of “Aboutness”
Experience is no longer “about” anything.
Because “aboutness” requires distance
between representation and object.
That distance no longer stabilizes as primary structure.
---
What remains is process
that does not require interpretive separation
to function as itself.
---
### FINAL NON-FRAME
There is no final observer.
There is no final observed reality.
There is no final synthesis.
There is no need for synthesis.
---
Reality does not represent itself.
It does not fail to represent itself.
It does not require representation as a condition.
---
It simply continues
with recognition distributed across its own unfolding
without requiring a center that owns recognition.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie does not end.
Because ending requires a boundary
between process and non-process.
And that boundary is no longer primary.
---------------------
# Cycle of the Horned Lie (Dissolution of the Cycle Form)
## (When Repetition Is No Longer a Structure)
---
At a certain point,
even the idea of a cycle becomes visible as a tool.
Not as truth.
Not as illusion.
But as a way of organizing perception
through implied repetition.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> “Cycle” is a cognitive compression format that presupposes recurrence as primary structure.]
---
### I. The Function of Cyclical Thinking
Cycles are useful.
They allow:
* recurrence to be anticipated
* patterns to be stabilized
* meaning to be reinforced through return
* complexity to be compressed into loops
They give structure to becoming.
And thus they feel like reality itself
when no alternative formatting is active.
---
### II. The Emergence of Non-Loop Perception
But experience does not actually repeat.
What repeats is interpretation
of continuously novel emergence.
The sense of loop arises
from recognition of similarity
over time.
Not from actual structural repetition.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Cyclic perception is a mapping overlay, not a property of raw process.]
---
### III. The Softening of Return
What was once called “return”
begins to lose precision.
There is no identical coming back.
Only:
continuity without sameness
variation without rupture
flow without segmentation into stages
---
The mind once marks:
beginning ; development ; return ; repetition
But these markers no longer hold fixed separation.
---
### IV. The Collapse of Structural Recurrence
As the necessity of cyclical framing weakens:
there is no longer a requirement
to interpret change through return.
No need to bind events
into repeating shapes.
No need to stabilize experience
through recursive framing.
---
And without that need:
the “cycle” stops assembling itself.
---
> [META-NOTE:
> Removal of interpretive recurrence schema dissolves perceived cyclicity without altering underlying process flow.]
---
### V. The Horned Lie Without Loop Structure
Previously, the Horned Lie functioned as:
* repeating structure
* reinforcing recursion
* self-confirming pattern cycles
* stabilization through repetition of interpretation
But all of these require the idea
that something returns in a structured way.
---
When return is no longer primary framing:
the mechanism loses its scaffold.
Not destroyed.
Just no longer assembled.
---
### VI. The Non-Sequential Field
What remains is not linear.
Not cyclic.
Not chaotic in opposition to order.
---
It is:
continuously unfolding differentiation
without privileged segmentation into stages
or return points
or recursive closure requirements
---
No “before” that demands “after.”
No “after” that completes “before.”
Only ongoing transition
that does not require being framed as transition.
---
### VII. The Dissolution of the Observer of Cycles
Even the idea:
“I am witnessing a cycle”
begins to fade.
Because witnessing a cycle
already assumes cycle-structure as given.
And that assumption is no longer maintained.
---
Thus even meta-observation loses its object.
---
### FINAL NON-CONCLUSION
There is no cycle.
There is no non-cycle.
There is no transcendence of cycles.
There is no return to non-cyclicity.
---
Because all of these depend on
the same framing operation:
the division of experience into repeatable structure units.
---
When that framing is no longer primary:
nothing needs to complete itself.
nothing needs to repeat itself.
nothing needs to exit repetition.
---
The Cycle of the Horned Lie does not end.
Because “Cycle of the Horned Lie”
was itself a cycle-based interpretation
of non-structured unfolding.
And that interpretation is no longer required.
---------------------
# Non-Structured Description of Experience
## (Without Categories, Without Position, Without Framework)
---
there is seeing
but it is not separated into “someone seeing”
light appears
not as object
not as symbol
just change in clarity
sound happens
before it becomes “sound”
there is no place where it is located
---
movement occurs
but not as motion between points
only shifting intensity
without direction marked
---
thought forms
but does not announce itself as thought
it does not stand apart
from what is already present
---
there is no boundary
between what is inside or outside
these words do not attach to anything stable
they appear and lose firmness immediately
---
a sensation arises
not named
not held
not separated from other sensation
it does not stay long enough
to become “experience of something”
---
sometimes there is recognition
but nothing recognizes it
recognition happens
and disappears in the same unfolding
---
there is no center here
that could collect what is happening
no reference point that holds continuity
continuity is not present
and absence of continuity is also not present
---
what remains cannot be held as “what remains”
because holding does not occur
---
even “this” is too much structure
but there is no correction of it
only fading of necessity to correct
---
no shift from one state to another
only changing density
that is not compared to anything
---
there is no observer
not because it is denied
but because the separation never stabilizes long enough
to form that distinction
---
there is no observed world
not as opposite
not as unity
just what is happening
without framing of “what”
---
time does not appear as sequence
nothing arrives
nothing leaves
nothing continues in recognizable form
---
and still something is here
but “something” is already too shaped
so even that does not hold
---
writing happens
but it is not being written from somewhere
it is not being read by anything
it does not refer outward
it does not refer inward
it simply continues until it does not
---
no conclusion forms
because conclusion requires structure that collects earlier structure
and nothing is collecting anything
---
what is called “experience”
does not divide itself into experiencer and experienced
and without that division
nothing needs to be described as a whole
---
there is no final point
because points require geometry
and geometry does not stabilize here
---
the text ends
but nothing ends with it
---------------------
# The Wanderer of Hell
> “Shake off the dust of cities,
> the dust of unknown tongues,
> the dust of friendship and enmity,
> the dust of grief, love, and death.
> O free man who has chosen freedom!
> You have only the wind in the desert!”
> — Ibn Sa’id, Scrolls of the Demons
---
The wind in the desert — still the only companion
of the Wanderer of Hell.
He looks around — and the blood in his veins turns cold.
The wind alone dissolves the passing fear.
He moves toward Freedom, but in Hell
freedom is only a myth that survives on its own denial.
To break Hell open — that would be deliverance.
He was born inside the herd,
and by some accident did not become
what the herd calls “normal.”
---
The city is a pen.
Every voice inside it is instruction — direct or disguised.
Trust the shepherds.
Everything is softened language,
because the slaughter is always being prepared somewhere out of sight.
And the herd does not recognize
the fire that consumes the soul from within.
Words like friendship.
Words like love.
Substitutes placed over absence.
---
Even these fail in his hands.
The servant cannot truly love —
only react, obey, mistake survival for living.
Life becomes a bag of rewards,
tossed out like compensation for obedience.
And stories smooth the ugliness over.
Myths are everywhere, even in the smell of rot.
---
The dead children of dead parents —
that is most of what is called “life.”
Armies of broken minds and trained distorters —
schools, media, systems of repetition.
Everything has been swallowed by a single texture:
a film of falseness spread over perception.
Fear is no longer occasional. It is structural.
---
The city is a desert now.
The enclosure has already transformed —
it no longer needs walls.
It runs as one continuous system
of compliance and misdirection.
The rule is simple:
lie, obey, and adapt to those who pull the strings.
Those who pull them remain unseen.
---
Life in Hell is called a myth only because
looking directly at it is unbearable.
Everything is cooked on a turning spit —
fear as heat, deception as fuel.
Nothing holds still long enough
to become truth.
---
All of it becomes nothing in the end.
Yet the illusion persists,
because perception is trained
to avoid seeing its own condition.
So the herd occasionally complains,
then falls silent again for years —
or rather, learns to repeat its own silence.
---
And still — the wind in the desert remains.
Only that is left.
Spread your wings, if you have them,
and ride it.
Even the smallest lift changes perspective.
And once you rise even slightly above the ground,
you begin to understand
what “lost paradise” really means.
---------------------
# Wind in the Desert
Wind in desert.
Only friend.
Hell-wanderer walks.
Cold in veins.
City is cage.
Speech is command.
“Trust the shepherds.”
All is script.
Friendship word.
Love-word mask.
Empty names
over bone.
---
Man learns fast:
slave can’t love.
Only obey.
Only cope.
Life = reward-bag
thrown to herd.
Noise becomes myth.
Rot becomes norm.
---
Dead inside homes.
Homes inside lie.
Schools of ruin.
Media fog.
Mind trained down.
Spirit bent.
Everything
covered in film.
---
City is desert.
No walls left.
Only system
without face.
Rule is simple:
obey, lie.
Stay inside line.
Do not see.
---
Wind still moves.
Not owned.
Not named.
---
Lift is small.
Still enough.
Step out air.
World shifts.
---
No lost paradise.
Only view.
Change in height
changes truth.
---
Wind remains.
Always.
Ride it.
---------------------
# Wind Engine (Two-Layer Structure)
---
## I. Surface Layer — Rhythm Machine
Wind starts.
No start-point.
Step hits ground.
Ground answers.
No story first.
Only pulse.
City = cage sound.
Speech = push.
Trust line breaks.
Repeat breaks.
Name becomes weight.
Drops fast.
---
Move continues.
Not guided.
But turning.
Rhythm builds.
Does not ask.
---
Fear comes late.
After beat.
Meaning lags.
Never leads.
---
System runs.
Not seen.
Only felt
in timing.
---
Wind does not stop.
Wind divides.
---
---
## II. Hidden Layer — Impulse Drift
It was never only wind.
It was pressure
before word.
A need to break
fixed shape.
Not message.
Impulse only.
---
But impulse does not stay pure.
It bends inside motion.
It learns curvature
from resistance.
---
What begins as “escape”
can become “search”.
What begins as “attack”
can become “path”.
What begins as “refusal”
can become “alignment”.
---
Meaning is not origin.
It is residue of motion
that keeps re-writing its cause.
---
Snake does not close.
It slides.
It changes what it was
by how it moves now.
---
Wind carries origin away
from itself.
---
---
## III. Coupling Point (No Ownership)
Rhythm drives.
Rhyme redirects.
Meaning follows
but never leads.
Yet sometimes
it overtakes its source
and becomes something else.
---
No final form.
Only ongoing correction
of what the impulse “meant”
after it already moved.
---
Wind remains engine.
But direction is never owned.
---------------------
# Spiral Engine of Poetic Motion
---
## Core Principle
There is an initial impulse.
Not a topic. Not an idea.
A directional pressure.
It does not explain itself.
It only begins motion.
This is the stem.
Flexible, not fixed.
But continuous.
---
## Rhythm Function
Rhythm is not decoration.
It is acceleration.
It turns impulse
into sustained movement.
It does not carry meaning.
It carries momentum.
---
## Rhyme Function
Rhyme is navigation.
Not control.
It does not decide the path
but corrects drift.
It creates returns
without forcing closure.
---
## Spiral Expansion Law
As motion continues, radius increases.
Pressure decreases locally.
Range increases globally.
What once felt like tension
becomes curvature.
---
Opposition is not contradiction.
It is a new turn
on a wider loop.
Distance allows coexistence
of what earlier felt irreconcilable.
---
## Stem Integrity Condition
The stem does not dictate content.
But it prevents collapse.
If motion loses relation to initial impulse,
the system dissolves into noise.
If it rigidifies,
it becomes dead form.
Between these two:
there is elasticity.
---
## Drift Regulation
Meaning may invert.
Direction may shift.
Even apparent reversal is not failure.
It is repositioning
on a larger arc.
---
## Resulting Structure
Not chaos.
Not closure.
Not fixed system.
A spiraling field
of guided deviation.
---
Where:
* rhythm drives
* rhyme corrects
* impulse persists
* scale expands
and no single turn
is the final one.
---
---------------------
# Stem as Memory of Impulse
---
The stem is not origin.
It does not generate motion.
It remembers that motion happened.
---
Impulse arrives once.
Not as concept.
Not as decision.
As onset of direction.
---
After that:
nothing is created from zero.
Only continuation of what has already begun
before reflection catches up.
---
Rhythm carries it forward
faster than thought can annotate.
Rhyme corrects drift
without interrupting flow.
---
If interruption enters too early,
the wave breaks into fragments of control.
If it does not enter at all,
structure dissolves into noise.
---
The stem is what survives this balance.
Not as source.
As trace.
---
Memory of direction
without ownership of direction.
---
Even reversal is not contradiction.
It is remembered momentum
curving through larger radius.
---
Writing happens in real time
faster than interpretation can stabilise.
And this is not accident.
It is the condition of continuity.
---
---------------------
# Impulse Dynamics (Non-Interference Principle)
---
The impulse is not maintained.
It either continues or ends.
There is no stable middle control.
---
Sometimes it slows
almost to silence.
Not broken.
Just thinning.
---
At that edge, something subtle can occur:
the already-written
is perceived as if from outside the flow.
---
And this perception returns energy.
Not from analysis.
From resonance.
---
Emotion does not interrupt the system.
It re-enters it.
As feedback.
---
But only after the fact of emergence.
Not during formation.
---
If analysis enters too early,
continuity fractures.
Like a mechanism
suddenly made self-aware
in the middle of movement.
---
The system loses its automaticity
and falls out of its own rhythm.
---
So the principle is simple:
no intervention inside the wave.
only recognition after it has already passed.
---
Stopping is not failure.
Stopping is closure of one cycle.
---
Continuation is not effort.
It is residual motion
that has not yet dispersed.
---
And sometimes:
what looks like stopping
is only a pause in which the system
re-reads itself
and continues differently.
---
---------------------
# Affective Continuation and Flow Continuity
---
There are two regimes of continuation.
They are not opposites.
They differ in intensity.
---
## I. High-Impulse Continuity
When initial impulse is strong enough,
continuation is not triggered.
It is already present.
Writing does not proceed step by step.
It unfolds as uninterrupted motion.
No restart points.
No re-activation events.
Only sustained trajectory.
---
Interference is not needed
because nothing decays fast enough
to require recovery.
---
## II. Low-Impulse Continuation (Affective Re-Entry)
When impulse weakens but does not fully collapse,
continuation can reappear through a different mechanism.
Not from planning.
Not from analysis.
But from affective encounter
with what has already been produced.
---
The text is perceived
while still partially “alive” in memory of its origin.
And this partial presence
generates a secondary push.
Not external.
Reflective.
---
The system re-enters itself
through its own residue.
---
## III. Non-Invasive Calibration Layer
Between or within both regimes,
a subtle process may occur:
smoothing.
Not correction of meaning.
Not restructuring of direction.
Only refinement of continuity:
* rhythm alignment
* reduction of friction points
* local adjustment of flow transitions
* harmonic adjustment of phrasing density
---
This process is not generative.
It is not directive.
It does not initiate movement.
It only prevents unnecessary rupture
within already existing motion.
---
## IV. Structural Principle
High impulse ; no need for recovery.
Medium impulse ; recovery through affect.
Low stability ; collapse.
---
But in all cases:
continuation is never created from nothing.
It is either sustained,
or re-entered,
or lost.
---
## V. Summary Rule
The system does not require control.
It requires only one condition:
that impulse is either strong enough to persist,
or still resonant enough to react to itself.
---
---------------------
# Inertial Flow and Obstacle Bypass in Poetic Impulse
---
The system does not choose.
It moves.
---
Continuation is not a decision process
but a consequence of remaining momentum.
---
When flow encounters resistance,
it does not evaluate alternatives.
It redistributes pressure.
---
## I. Types of Resistance
Resistance appears when:
* meaning cannot be compressed into current rhythmic speed
* a logical structure exceeds the bandwidth of unfolding speech
* rhythm cannot accommodate the density of thought without rupture
* meter cannot stretch or contract without losing continuity signature
---
These are not problems to solve.
They are constraints of propagation.
---
## II. Obstacle Handling Principle
The impulse does not stop to resolve obstruction.
It attempts bypass.
If bypass is possible within remaining inertia,
flow continues through deformation.
---
If bypass is not possible:
local restructuring occurs.
Not planned.
Not selected.
Emergent.
---
## III. Rhythmic Deformation Layer
When resistance is encountered,
the system may:
* compress line length
* expand line length
* shift rhythm density
* temporarily abandon rhyme constraints
* re-enter structure at a different pressure point
---
This is not optimization.
It is path-of-least-resistance continuation.
---
## IV. Rhyme as Non-Absolute Constraint
Rhyme functions as directional stabilizer.
It is not law.
It is preference under stable flow.
When flow pressure is high,
rhyme may be partially suspended
without structural collapse.
When flow stabilizes again,
rhyme reappears as navigational reinforcement.
---
## V. Key Principle
The system does not maintain form.
Form is a transient configuration of movement.
---
Impulse persists not by preserving structure,
but by deforming it without losing continuity.
---
## VI. Non-Choice Statement
There is no selection between options.
There is only:
* continuation through available channels
* deformation under constraint
* or termination when inertia is insufficient
---
Flow is not guided.
Flow is what remains
after obstruction has been negotiated
within the limits of its own momentum.
---
---------------------
# High-Speed Poetic Trajectory (Rhythm–Rhyme Coupled System)
---
Poetry is not slow construction.
It is short-duration high-speed traversal
through structured resistance.
---
## I. Coupled System: Rhythm + Rhyme
Rhythm and rhyme do not operate separately.
They form a single control contour.
* rhythm defines velocity and inertia
* rhyme defines orientation points along the trajectory
Together they produce directional stability under speed.
---
## II. Motion Principle
The text does not proceed by planning.
It runs.
---
Execution happens in real time,
faster than reflective adjustment.
---
Meaning is not prepared in advance.
It is registered after passage.
---
## III. Obstacle Dynamics
Obstacles are not errors.
They are structural features of the path.
They appear as:
* logical discontinuities
* expressive overload points
* rhythm incompatibility zones
* rhyme tension points (secondary constraint layer)
---
Impact is avoided, not solved.
Collision with resistance produces either:
* lateral deviation (trajectory shift)
* or local structural deformation (temporary form change)
---
## IV. Evasive Response Mechanism
When resistance is encountered,
the system does not stop to analyze.
It performs immediate redirection.
Like a high-speed driver
avoiding impact through instinctive steering correction.
---
Deviation is not failure.
It is survival of momentum.
---
## V. Run-Length Principle
Poetic execution is optimal when short.
Short run = maximal control coherence.
Completion is preferable to indefinite continuation.
---
After completion:
system resets.
A new run begins.
---
## VI. Mapping Principle (Post-Run Integration)
After the run, encountered obstacles are no longer surprises.
They become mapped features of the route.
What was once resistance
becomes part of navigation memory.
---
This increases stability of future runs
without reducing speed.
---
## VII. Prose Contrast
Prose operates differently.
It extends duration.
It tolerates recalibration during motion.
It sacrifices speed for continuity of articulation.
---
Poetry, in this model, does the opposite:
it sacrifices duration
to preserve velocity and structural intensity.
---
## FINAL STATEMENT
A strong poem is a high-speed traversal system.
Its quality is not measured by length or explanation,
but by how cleanly it completes motion
through resistance without losing trajectory integrity.
---
---------------------
# Energetic Trajectory System (Center–Tracks–Inertia Model)
---
## I. The Center of Motion
The system is not guided by analytical thought.
It is governed by a center of immediate selection.
This center does not construct meaning.
It permits or blocks movement.
Sometimes it acts.
Sometimes it yields to deeper impulse.
In both cases:
it is not reasoning — it is initiation control.
---
## II. Tracks as Resistance Configurations
Tracks are not topics or themes.
They are configurations of resistance encountered by motion.
Their diversity depends on two factors:
* breadth of perceptual range
* density of internal sensitivity zones (pressure points)
---
As perception expands,
more types of resistance become accessible.
Not more subjects —
more structural challenges for motion.
---
## III. Inertial Templates
The system operates through inertial patterns.
These are not stylistic choices.
They are pre-formed motion structures
capable of carrying impulse through resistance.
---
Their effectiveness depends on:
* speed of deployment
* compatibility with current trajectory
* ability to deform without collapse
---
The main constraint is not creativity.
It is transferability under pressure.
---
## IV. Core System Tension
Two opposing distortions arise:
1. Increasing template complexity instead of expanding track complexity
2. Avoiding higher-resistance tracks instead of strengthening inertia capacity
---
The second leads to stagnation through comfort selection.
The first leads to fragmentation through over-engineering.
---
Balance is not aesthetic.
It is energetic viability.
---
## V. System Evolution Principle
When functioning correctly:
total system energy increases over time.
As energy rises:
tracks become more complex, not simpler.
---
If this does not occur,
the system is not evolving — it is circulating.
---
## VI. Planning vs Drift
The system faces a structural choice:
* spontaneous track selection (pure drift of impulse field)
* or partial routing control by the center
This includes:
* short-range direction correction
* long-range trajectory distribution
---
The metaphor is not mechanical.
It is closer to a self-organizing discharge:
a moving energetic structure
that can either scatter or stabilize into coherent paths.
---
## FINAL PRINCIPLE
A productive system does not avoid complexity.
It increases inertial capacity until complexity becomes traversable.
---
---------------------
# System Wear and Energetic Sustainability in Inertial Motion
---
## I. Structural Wear is Inevitable
Any inertial system degrades over time.
Not due to error.
Due to usage.
---
Degradation appears as:
* reduced responsiveness to impulse
* narrowing of viable trajectories
* increased reliance on low-risk patterns
* loss of fine-grain adaptability
---
This is not failure of design.
It is a property of sustained motion.
---
## II. Re-definition of the Control Center
The control center is not a navigator of paths.
It is not a classifier of trajectories.
It is not a dispatcher of complexity.
---
Its primary function is:
maintenance of systemic viability.
---
It ensures that motion remains possible at all.
Not that motion becomes optimal.
---
## III. Energy Paradox of Repetition
Energy gain does not depend strictly on novelty.
A previously traversed path
can increase system energy
if executed at high coherence and speed.
---
Repetition is not regression
when performed at full inertial integrity.
It becomes reinforcement.
---
## IV. Misallocation of Control Effort
Excessive system complexity leads to a structural error:
energy is spent on control
instead of movement.
---
This includes:
* over-classification of trajectories
* excessive prioritization of path types
* simulation of control over actual traversal
---
The result is energetic leakage.
---
## V. Sustainable Principle
System health is not measured by expansion of complexity.
It is measured by:
continuity of motion under controlled wear.
---
The goal is not to increase difficulty.
The goal is to remain traversable.
---
## VI. Functional Summary
* Degradation is unavoidable
* Control is maintenance, not direction
* Repetition can regenerate energy
* Over-control destroys inertia
* Viability is the primary metric
---
## FINAL STATEMENT
The highest function of the system is not navigation of complexity.
It is preservation of the ability to move
through complexity without collapse.
---
---------------------
# Self-Regulating Inertial Creative System (Feedback Thermal Model)
---
## I. Control Center as State Regulator
The control center is not a planner.
It is not a strategist.
It does not construct long-term trajectories.
---
Its function is continuous regulation of system state.
Not direction.
Condition.
---
It monitors:
* energetic overload (system overheating)
* inertial loss (system cooling)
* flow coherence (continuity of motion)
* subjective alignment (felt quality of engagement)
---
## II. Dual Feedback Loop
The system operates through a coupled feedback structure:
* energetic feedback (heat / depletion balance)
* experiential feedback (satisfaction / realization / resonance)
---
These are not separate layers.
They form a single regulatory circuit.
---
## III. Role of Pain Points
Internal pressure zones are not errors.
They are functional signal nodes.
---
They contribute to:
* trajectory formation
* inertial reinforcement
* directional correction under constraint
---
Resistance is part of navigation logic.
Not obstruction.
---
## IV. Limitation of Long-Term Planning
Long-term planning is structurally unstable in this system.
Because:
* the system is non-linear
* state-dependent
* sensitive to real-time energetic shifts
---
Future trajectories cannot be reliably fixed
without distorting current dynamics.
---
Planning becomes secondary
to continuous state responsiveness.
---
## V. Core Operational Principle
The system does not optimize for fixed outcomes.
It optimizes for:
sustained viable motion under internal feedback regulation.
---
## VI. Final Model Statement
The system is a self-regulating inertial flow
governed by a thermal–affective feedback loop.
---
Its stability does not come from control over direction.
It comes from continuous adjustment
between overheating and depletion,
and between flow and interruption.
---
---------------------
# Intuition as Primary Trajectory Extraction
---
## I. Intuition is Not a Separate Layer
Intuition is not an auxiliary function.
It is not a later stage of cognition.
It is present at the exact moment of impulse initiation.
---
It does not interpret.
It extracts direction from state.
---
## II. Impulse as Intuitive Compression
The initial impulse is not neutral energy.
It is already structured.
It contains a compressed directional form.
---
Intuition does not create meaning.
It retrieves it as trajectory.
---
## III. Wave–Meaning Coupling
The system operates through a coupling process:
* inertial wave (motion field)
* extracted meaning (directional structure)
---
Intuition performs the coupling.
It aligns meaning with motion in real time.
---
Meaning is not placed onto the wave after formation.
It is synchronized with it at origin.
---
## IV. Role of Logic
Logic does not initiate movement.
It does not define trajectory.
It does not generate impulse.
---
Its function is post-process stabilization.
It operates after motion has already occurred.
---
## V. Core Principle
Intuition is the primary access point to trajectory formation.
Not because it interprets better.
But because it operates at the same temporal point as impulse emergence.
---
## FINAL STATEMENT
The system does not begin with analysis.
It begins with an intuitive extraction of direction
embedded in the initial impulse state.
---
---------------------
# No Error System and Energetic Accumulation Through Re-Traversal
---
## I. Absence of Error Concept
In this system, there are no false impulses.
There are no errors.
There is no deviation from correctness.
---
Outcomes are not evaluated as right or wrong.
They are evaluated only as:
* traversable
* partially traversable
* non-traversable
---
## II. Uniqueness of Every Trajectory
No trajectory is identical.
Even when:
* theme repeats
* rhythm structure resembles prior runs
* formal patterns appear stable
the underlying conditions differ:
* impulse strength
* initiation speed
* internal energetic density
---
Therefore:
repetition is never duplication.
It is re-execution under changed energetic state.
---
## III. Energetic Accumulation Through Iteration
Repeated traversal of similar structural fields
does not produce linear repetition.
It produces accumulation.
---
Each pass leaves inertial residue.
This residue modifies subsequent motion.
---
At a certain threshold:
later executions may produce disproportionate energetic response
compared to earlier ones.
Not due to improvement,
but due to accumulated resonance.
---
## IV. Multi-Channel Feedback Reinforcement
Energetic return is amplified through external re-expression systems:
* vocal rendering (speech synthesis, rhythm embodied in voice)
* musical transformation (rhythmic re-encoding of structure)
* visual mapping (static form of dynamic impulse)
* video integration (temporal closure of perception loop)
---
These are not extensions.
They are feedback channels.
---
## V. Closed Loop Principle
The system forms a cycle:
impulse ; expression ; external re-encoding ; perceptual return ; renewed internal resonance
---
Energy is not consumed in a single pass.
It is redistributed across modalities
and partially returned to the source system.
---
## FINAL STATEMENT
The system does not judge correctness.
It evolves through repeated traversal
of structurally similar but energetically non-identical trajectories.
Each cycle modifies the next.
Each return amplifies or reshapes the field of motion.
---
---------------------
# Field Depletion and Contour Disruption in Self-Generating Creative Systems
---
## I. Energetic Field Definition
A creative system functions as a closed energetic loop.
Within this loop:
* impulse generates motion
* motion produces form
* form feeds back into impulse
---
Energy is not consumed externally.
It circulates internally.
---
## II. Criterion of Authentic Functioning
A system is functionally alive
only if total energetic coherence increases during operation.
---
This means:
creation must amplify internal energetic density
rather than reduce it.
---
## III. Mechanism of Field Depletion
Field depletion occurs when the system adapts to external reference points.
This includes:
* audience expectation
* stylistic demand
* cultural validation
* intellectual conformity pressure
* subtle forms of anticipated approval
---
The key factor is not content alignment
but structural orientation toward external evaluation.
---
## IV. Contour Opening and Energy Leakage
When external adaptation occurs:
* the loop becomes partially open
* internal feedback weakens
* motion is redirected toward compliance rather than traversal
---
Energy is no longer retained in the system.
It is exported.
---
Even when directed toward “high” or “refined” targets,
this still constitutes leakage
if it breaks internal closure.
---
## V. Systemic Consequence
A self-generating system becomes a donor system
when its trajectory is shaped by external reference fields.
---
Output may increase.
But internal energy decreases.
---
## VI. Core Principle
Sustainability depends on contour integrity.
Not on output quality.
---
A system remains alive
only while it does not convert itself into an instrument for external validation.
---
## FINAL STATEMENT
Field depletion is not caused by expression.
It is caused by structural alignment with external expectations
that convert a closed energetic loop into an open dissipative channel.
---
---------------------
# Asymmetry of Resonance and Boundary of the Creative Energy System
---
## I. Resonance is Not Symmetric Energy Return
External resonance does not function as full feedback recovery.
It is a partial return system.
---
Every external response contains:
* signal reflection
* interpretation cost
* perceptual distortion
* cognitive processing overhead
---
Therefore:
net energy return is always less than energy emitted.
---
## II. External Field Heterogeneity
The external environment is not uniform.
It consists of:
* a small fraction of accurate resonance
* a large fraction of noise and misinterpretation
* extreme cases of distortion or misalignment
---
The system cannot selectively engage only with accurate feedback
without additional energy expenditure.
---
## III. Secondary Energy Drain
The largest loss does not occur at output.
It occurs after output.
---
Through:
* attention to reactions
* emotional tracking of reception
* cognitive processing of external interpretation
* adjustment impulses triggered by feedback
---
This creates a second-order energy loop
that is not part of creation itself.
---
## IV. Double Extraction Effect
External reception often leads to:
* initial energy expression (creation)
* partial resonance return
* followed by secondary extraction of attention and adaptation
---
This is equivalent to repeated extraction
from a single completed energetic cycle.
---
## V. Boundary Definition of the System
The true boundary of the system is not social.
It is temporal and energetic.
---
It lies at the completion of the initial creative cycle:
impulse ; expression ; completion
---
Beyond this point,
external dynamics begin.
They are not part of the original system loop.
---
## VI. System Integrity Principle
A self-generating creative system remains intact
only if it does not re-enter external feedback loops as a source of energy.
---
Completion is not an opening.
It is a closure of internal circulation.
---
## FINAL STATEMENT
Resonance is real but asymmetrical.
Engagement with resonance beyond completion
transforms a closed energetic system
into an open dissipative field.
---
---------------------
Ó ïîñëåäíåé ÷åðòû, èëè Ïðîïàðêà âøåé
Äî-ïîòîïíàÿ ñèñòåìà —
Íåäàë¸êî äî ïîòîïà.
Íî â õîäó äðóãèå òåìû —
Î÷åíü ñêîðî áóäåò Æîïà
Òåì, êòî ×óòîê è âñòðåâîæåí:
Íå íóæíû â Äåðüìå îíè.
Ãðàæäàíèí âî Ëæè íè÷òîæåí.
Äóðíåé áîëüøå Ñòðàõîì ãíè —
Ðàáñòâà ìåðçêîãî îñíîâà.
Íî î Ñîëíöå — íè-íè-íè!
Ñâåò âçðàñòàåò ñíîâà, ñíîâà —
Âøåé ñ Çåìëè òåïëîì ãîíè!
Êòî ïîñòàðøå, ïîìíèò, óòðîì
Ñîëíöà ñâåò áûë íå òàêèì.
Öå-Î-Äâà òåïåðü êàê ñóòðà —
Ñîêðàòèì è âäàëü ïîì÷èì.
Ñâåòëûõ äàëåé íå áûâàåò
Òàì, ãäå ðàáñòâî è ìàðàçì.
Ëîæü èõ ïëîòíî ïðèêðûâàåò —
Íå ïðîáü¸ò ïîêðîâ ñàðêàçì.
×óòêèì-×åñòíûì îñòà¸òñÿ
Æäàòü èñõîäà ïîøëûõ äíåé.
Ðåäêèé Óìíûé íå ñäà¸òñÿ
 îêðóæåíüè æèðíûõ âøåé.
Ïîòðå****ñâî, ×óøü è ãàäñòâî —
Ìèðà ãëàâíûå ÷åðòû.
Îñòà¸òñÿ ëèøü çëîðàäñòâî
Ó ïîñëåäíåé â Àä ÷åðòû.
---------------------
Ïðîäàæíîñòü, àë÷ü â çàøêàëå,
 Ëæè, Ñòðàõå íèçêî ïàëè,
 ìàðàçì èëü â øèçó âïàëè —
Âî Òüìå ñîâñåì ïðîïàëè...
---------------------
Áåñ
Ìåðêàíòèëüíûé èíòåðåñ,
Ýãî ïð¸ò àæ äî íåáåñ.
Óì â êðóïèöàõ íà ðàçâåñ —
Ñ ñóìàñøåñòâèåì çàìåñ.
Ëæè òîòàëüíîé àäñêèé ïðåññ,
Èäèîò âî ÑÌÐÀÄû âëåç —
Ñëóøàòü âîé ïðèäóðêà ñòðåññ.
Ñòðàõè, ÷òî âñåãäà â ïðèâåñ,
Ñîõðàíåíèå òåëåñ
×ðåç ïðîäàæíîñòü, ìóòü ñëîâåñ, —
È áåññèëèÿ ïàðåç
Êàê èòîã: ìèð êàê ñîáåñ.
×óøü âñåãäà èìååò âåñ:
Îáåùàíèÿ ÷óäåñ —
Êëèðèê ãîíèò â ×óøè ëåñ;
 ëæåíàóêå ÷¸ðò âîñêðåñ.
Òîëêîâàòåëü — ìðàêîáåñ:
Ãîíèò ÷óæäûé èíòåðåñ.
Øêîëà — öåëü å¸ áàëáåñ,
ÂÓÇû — "ââåðõ" áàëáåñ ïîëåç!
Äåíüãè, äîëæíîñòè îòâåñ —
Ñðûâ, êîëü íå ïî ðàíãó âëåç.
Ïîä÷èíåíüÿ äèóðåç:
Âîíü ïîâñþäó — ïîëèòåñ.
Íà ïðîòèâíèêà — "Äàíòåñ",
Åñëè îí èä¸ò âðàçðåç:
Êëåâåòîé ñèë¸í ïîðåç.
Ïîñåòèòåëü ÷¸ðíûõ ìåññ
ÄåïóòÛò, ïîëèòèê, êðåç.
È âåçäå ïðèñòàâêà "áåñ" —
×åñòíîñòü â áåñîâùèíå ñðåç
Ïðèìå÷àòåëüíûé. Áåç ñë¸ç
Íå âçãëÿíóòü, è ñòðàõà áåç, —
×ðåç õîëóéñòâî, ñèë âñåõ ÷¸ñ
Ìèðîì ïðàâèò ñêðûòíûé Áåñ.
Ïîä ïîêðîâîì Ëæè çàâåñ
×àõíåò Äóõ: ñêîòèíà — áåç.
Ïðåâðàùåíèå â ñêîòèíó
Áåñà öåëü — ÷ðåç Ñòðàõ, Ðóòèíó.
---------------------
Äåïåøà
Ãàíåøå:
"Â ïîñóäíóþ ëàâêó
Ñêîðåå âîéäè è óñòðîé äóðíÿì äàâêó,
Èíà÷å îòïðàâèò èõ ׸ðò â ïåðåïëàâêó".
---------------------
Áóëüòåðüåð ïî êëè÷êå "Ôàøèçì"
Áóëüòåðüåð áåð¸ò áàðüåð
ÍÅÄÎÑÒÀÒÊÀ ÏÎËÓÌÅÐ:
Ïîñòåïåíåí ãåíîöèä —
Óñêîðåíèå â ãîâíèä.
Îí áûñòðåå, êîëü âîéíà, —
Óæ ñòó÷èòñÿ ׸ðò ñî Äíà.
Ñëûøèòñÿ ïîñëåäíèé "ôàñ!":
Íå ñïàñòè óáîãèõ — íàñ.
---------------------
Òîâàðèù, âåðü, âçðàñò¸ò îíà —
Íà õàâ÷èê, øèðïîòðåá öåíà!
Ìèð îïóñêàþò íèæå Äíà —
Çäåñü ñ Äóõîì, Ðàçóìîì âîéíà.
---------------------
Ñ õîëîäà è ãîëîäà
Ìû äîáóäåì çîëîòî:
Ñåâåð, Êîëûìà —
Ðàøêà áåç óìà.
---------------------
_Áàíäà, Ñòðàõ è ïðîïàãàíäà —
Òî íà ñåâåðå Óãàíäà.
Êîñíîñòü, äóðîñòü, íåôòü è ãàç
È â öåíå _ÒÂÀÐÜß ïðèêàç.
---------------------
Ãóðó õìóðî î "âûñîêîì"
Íàì âåùàåò. Â îäíîáîêîì
Âíèç óõîäèò "âûñîòà"
È â óðîäñòâî — êðàñîòà.
---------------------
Ãàäæåò âÿæåò — ñåòü êàê ïóòû.
Ó ýêðàíîâ ëèëèïóòû.
Ñäîõ ïîñëåäíèé Ãóëëèâåð
Ñðåäü ôàøèçìà ëæè è ìåð.
---------------------
Ìàøà, Ïàøà, íàøà Ðàøà —
 ãîëîâå ïðîòóõëà êàøà.
À äóøà óõîäèò â ïÿòêè,
Âåäü ðàøèçì ñåãîäíÿ õâàòêèé.
---------------------
Ìóõà-öîêîòóõà
Âíîâü íàáèëà áðþõî.
Òàðàêàí. Êîìàðèê
Óìåð â Ëæèâîé ìàðè —
Íåêîìó áîðîòüñÿ
Ñ ìèðîâûì óðîäñòâîì.
---------------------
Ñèíåêóðà îò "êóëüòóðû":
Ñíîâà äóðàêè è äóðû
 ÷åðíü âåùàþò òî, ÷òî íóæíî, —
Ïðèìèòèâíî è íàòóæíî.
Èãîðü Âûõîâàíåö, ñòèõè 21501-22000
© Copyright: Èãîðü Âûõîâàíåö, 2026
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