90 poems

The Web of Law and the Glue of Lies and Idiocy

"Laws are like spiders' webs: they catch the weak and poor,
while the rich and powerful tear through them."
— Anacharsis (adapted)


The vermin swarm, they sting and bite,
Midges buzz by day and night.
Monsters weave their legal snare—
"Nothing personal." Just a trap laid there.

Yet that web has lost its might;
Better tools are used today.
Breed the fool from youth outright—
He will guard the chains himself that way.

Law became a second page;
Media rule the frightened mass.
This has marked the present age—
Through CowID the fiends made sure it'd pass.

Once the media stood above
Every statute, every right,
Truth was buried under love
Poured from megatons of lies outright.

Idiocy mixed with lies—
Stronger far than webs of thread.
Add sweet flattery as disguise,
And the captive's soul is gently led.

Humans ranked like insects all,
Sorted into labels, pens.
That's the Global Madhouse's call:
Serve the Beast as fodder—nothing less.

Learn the glue and learn the web;
That's the first and greatest key.
Then perhaps you'll stand instead
Of another midge in misery.



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First came webs to catch the weak.
Then came glue to kill the mind.
Break both traps—or spend your life
As obedient insect-kind.



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Living Water and Dead Water

"We are alive only to the extent that we awaken life in others."
— Merab Mamardashvili

With living water, Consciousness,
Revive this world that's lost its grace.
Few humans still remain on Earth—
Just slugs that crawl through blood, not dews.

They creep where glittering baits entice;
Behind the bait waits bitter salt.
Save those still breathing in the Madhouse,
If strength remains—fulfil your part.

You'll save yourself by saving life;
Exchange alone sustains the Whole.
Else all dissolves in funeral silence,
Where nothing seems to change at all.

Not fear nor greed will ever change—
They swell like one relentless tide.
Don't waste your soul on hollow creatures,
Or you'll become as dull inside.

Yet one grave question still remains:
What if your water, too, is dead?
The System poisons everything—
It always has. It always spreads.

Only intuition guides you
Past every scheme the Beasts design.
They've reached through every crack and shadow,
Yet waking minds they can't confine.

With living water, Consciousness,
Revive the dying human flame.
Though every drop be nearly spent,
Stand fast—we've reached rock-bottom's frame.



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Pour living water. Wake the blind.
Dead souls can't heal a dying land.
When poison floods the human mind,
Be living water—while you can.



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Nightmares

“It is not frightening to live in a dream; it is frightening to awaken in someone else’s dream.”
— Merab Mamardashvili


Nightmares drag on — no waking yet.
The worst is someone else’s dream:
there even iron spirits bend,
while weaker souls mistake the gleam

Of filth for profit, praise, or gain.
And once they wake — if wake they do —
they long to sink in sleep again,
as if the poison still were true.

Our own nightmares were not enough.
Minds collapsed; souls lost the way.
They cannot grasp this living Hell
that feeds on night and calls it day.

Those still awake lack strength to rouse
the sweating crowd that sleeps in chains.
And some desire a deeper sleep —
so deep they lose their very names,

Yielding themselves to Maya’s haze
until the last bright spark is gone.
The Beasts dispense their sleeping
drugs through loyal servants one by one.

Wake up. This place is worse than
The Matrix, for here the creatures milk the soul
through nightmares forged from fear and evil,
while pills and slogans play their role.

Lies everywhere — obscene, relentless.
The final product: universal sleep.
The slaughter of the soul is vast,
for Satan reigns where nightmares creep.



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The worst nightmare is not your own.
It’s waking inside another’s lie.
The sleepers call their chains “salvation”,
And dream themselves to death alive.



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Nightmares

"It is not frightening to live in a dream; it is frightening to awaken inside someone else's dream."
— Merab Mamardashvili


Nightmares endure—we cannot wake.
The worst is someone else's dream:
There even iron spirits break,
While weaker souls mistake the scream

For profit, pleasure, some reward.
Then waking, they would choose once more
To sink in sleep and praise the dark,
Afraid to face what waits ashore.

Our own nightmares were not enough.
Collapsed in spirit, minds can't see
The shape of Hell. The few awake
Cannot revive the sweating sea

Of crowds still trapped in fevered sleep.
And some desire to sleep so deep
They trade away their very core,
Until no spark remains to keep.

The Beasts provide the sleeping draught
Through servants trained to soothe and guide.
Awake! This world is worse than "Matrix"—
They pump souls full of nightmares wide,

Then offer pills made out of lies.
Lies everywhere, obscene, complete.
The universal sleep is proof
How vast the slaughter of the spirit.

For Satan reigns as Nightmare's god,
And feeds on souls that never hear it.



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Wake up before the borrowed dream
Consumes the last remaining spark.
The deepest sleep is not at night—
It's when the soul begins to love the dark.



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Parodying Pushkin

"I still recall that wondrous hour:
Before me you appeared to shine,
A fleeting vision, soft with power,
A spirit clothed in beauty divine."
— Alexander Pushkin (1825)

Trade not your soul for moments brief
Of crippled passion's fading flame.
Such fires bring little warmth beneath,
And Inspiration rarely came.

Stand shielded from the world's temptations—
Their glitter's cheap, their promise thin.
Let Lyre alone be your beloved,
To serve both Heart and waking Mind.

One-sided souls grow dull and barren;
They never reach the greater Whole.
You'll loathe your own distorted writing
When craft deserts the living soul.

In lonely dark each poet wanders,
Confined where silent shadows creep.
No god descends—in Hell's Decay
We're left to rot in shame too deep.

What shame—to seek delight in Hell,
To waste the Spirit chasing dust.
Hard labour is the only laurels;
Life fights the Ugly—or it must.

Where ugliness prevails, resist it.
The poet wages war through Words.
There dwell true honour, true nobility.
Let every verse strike like a mace!



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Choose not desire—but choose the Lyre.
Let Heart and Mind become one flame.
A poet's verse was forged for battle—
A mace disguised beneath a name.



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Caution

Step by step, so safe, so slow—
Soon to nothingness you go.
Rot disguised as "self-expression,"
Wrapped in smooth self-made deception.

Break the limits! Dare the climb!
Fortune crowns the bold each time.
Only on the highest height
You're a hero—not a fool in flight.



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Safety breeds a smaller soul;
Slow decay becomes your role.
Risk the summit. Stand and fight.
Only there you're proven right.



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Genocide Never Sleeps

Genocide alone stays awake.
Fools still swallow every fake.
Though a third lie crushed and slain,
Madmen trust the Lie again.



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Only Genocide won't sleep.
Shame! The fools their faith still keep.
Though a third were wiped away,
Madmen still trust Evil's play.



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Genocide Stays Awake

Genocide is wide awake.
Fools believe each lie they take.
Though a third have paid the cost,
Still the mad cry, "Nothing's lost!"



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Genocide never sleeps.
Madness always believes.
Truth may bury millions deep—
Still the faithful kiss deceit.



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"Real Men"

"Real men"—or fools who bow
Down to Evil here and now?
Judge for yourself, if "Paradise"
Glitters brightly before your eyes.



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"Real men"—or cowards, tame,
Serving Evil without shame?
Answer that for your own sake,
When "Heaven" looks suspiciously fake.



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"Real Men?"

"Real men"—or Evil's slaves?
Choose the answer, if you're brave.
When you glimpse that "Paradise,"
Look beyond its thin disguise.



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"Real men" never kneel to Wrong.
Chains don't make the weak seem strong.
Call it "Paradise" if you must—
Paint can't hide a cage from dust.



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Breeding Another Citizen

The female wants, without delay,
To breed one more for Evil's sway.
Pathetic fools are far too few—
"Damn it, let's produce some new!"



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Citizen Factory

She longs to bear, as fast she can,
Another servant for the clan.
Too few cretins fill the queue—
"Breed another fool or two!"



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For Evil's State

She wants a "citizen" conceived
For Evil's kingdom, self-deceived.
Apparently fools are still too rare—
So breed another, if you dare.



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Raise no free mind—breed one more pawn.
That's how rotten worlds live on.
When fools run short, the order's plain:
"Make another. Start again."



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No Way Out

There is no other way—
The rest is false display.
Only cataclysm's flame
Can wipe out Fascism.



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No Escape

No way out—
All else is doubt.
Only cataclysm's fire
Burns Fascism to the wire.



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The Only Exit

No escape.
The rest's a lie.
Only cataclysm
Makes Fascism die.



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




No exit. No disguise.
Every shortcut dies.
When evil crowns the throne,
Cataclysm stands alone.



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Exploiting the Homeland

They exploit the "homeland" too,
And the myths attached thereto.
Monsters gladly fall in line,
Killing souls one step at a time.



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The Homeland Industry

Exploit the homeland, wave the flag,
Feed the masses empty drags.
Then the twisted march as one,
While their souls come all undone.



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"Motherland"

Milk the "Motherland" for gain,
Sell its slogans once again.
Then the freaks line up on cue,
Leaving murdered souls in view.



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Wave the flag. Repeat the lie.
March in line and never ask why.
When slogans rule the human mind,
The soul is always left behind.



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Do Russians Want a War?

Do Russians long for war once more?
Ask Satan—that's what he's there for.
The nation's bowed to Satan's reign,
And sunk into the deepest shame.



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Ask Satan

Do Russians really want this war?
Ask Satan—he will know the score.
A land beneath his dark command
Has reached the deepest pit of man.



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The Answer

Do Russians crave another war?
Ask Satan—who could know it more?
When Satanism rules the land,
The abyss is close at hand.



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Ask not the crowd what wars are for.
Ask Hell, which always asks for more.
When Satan reigns from shore to shore,
The abyss becomes the common floor.



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Inverse Proportion

We breed more filth, we feed more fear,
Submission grows from year to year.
Thus Reason slowly is undone—
No wonder this world's drowned in dung.

CowID exposed it plain,
Then another senseless war:
Only few are free from vermin—
Those who still can think, and more.



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Inverse Law

The more corruption, fear and night,
The less survives of Reason's light.
That's why the world's become a pit—
A swamp of darkness, filth and grit.

CowID stripped masks away,
Then fresh wars proved the pattern true.
Only handfuls kept their minds;
The rest let Evil think for them.



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Inverse Proportionality

The more we multiply deceit,
And kneel to Darkness in defeat,
The faster Reason meets its grave—
Now filth engulfs the world we gave.

CowID revealed the game,
War confirmed the same old lie:
Only few refused to rot—
Those who kept a questioning eye.



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More fear. Less thought.
More lies. Less light.
That's how whole nations
Learn to love the night.



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Stations Are Dead

The stations died. The railway's rust.
Genocide has ground all into dust.
Yet hold your ground a little while—
This reign of shame won't last for long.



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The Rusted Road

The stations died. The road turned rust.
Genocide betrayed all hope and trust.
Endure a little longer still—
This age of shame is not God's will.



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Not Forever

The stations rot. The highways bleed.
The land lies scarred by genocide's seed.
Hold fast a little longer yet—
Even this shame has an end to get.



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Rusted Roads

The stations fell. The roads corrode.
Genocide has claimed its toll.
But bear it just a little more—
This shame was never meant to endure.



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Rust eats steel.
Lies eat men.
Hold your ground—
Dawn comes again.



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A Good Death

To die well—
The highest aim.
Hope is futile:
Evil stays.



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To Die Well

To die with honor—
The hardest quest.
Hope for nothing:
Evil won't rest.



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The Final Task

To die well—
The greatest test.
Hope no more:
Evil won't rest.



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The Highest Task

To die well—
The highest art.
Hope won't scatter
Evil apart.



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Die with honor—if you must.
Hope alone dissolves in dust.
Evil never fades away;
Stand until your final day.



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"Dear Little Grannies"

The old hag's grim—it's seldom seen
That age spares one from mind gone lean.
You should have learned to think back then,
While youth still burned its living flame.



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"Sweet Old Ladies"

The old crone's fierce—few reach old age
Without some cracks upon the stage.
You should have learned to use your mind
While youth still blazed and shaped mankind.



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"Lovely Grannies"

The old witch snarls—it's no surprise;
Few keep clear minds through all their lives.
You should have learned to think while young,
Before your spirit lost its tongue.



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Think while youth still feeds the fire.
Later's often far too late.
Rust begins inside the mind
Long before it scars the face.



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Chasing Happiness

We're chasing "happiness" with glee—
Who cares for chains? We can't think free.



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Looking for Happiness

We're hunting happiness all day.
Who gives a damn that we're enslaved?
When brains have long since gone astray,
No better fate could fools have craved.



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Seeking Bliss

We're seeking bliss—who cares for chains?
Our brains have long since gone to waste.



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Happy Slaves

We're chasing bliss—who gives a damn?
Our brains are broken. That's the scam.



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They sell us "happiness" for chains.
We smile—our minds already drained.



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Christianity's Supreme Aim

"Peace," submission, boundless pardon—
So the doctrine claims to be.
Thus decay becomes its mission:
Faith divorced from Reason's key.

Slavery is foul and fearful.
Why forgive triumphant Wrong?
That corruption stands before us
Anywhere masks linger long.

Shall we pardon all the lessons
Forced on us through CowID's reign?
Long ago the world sank headfirst
Into Hell through meekness' chain.



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The Core of Christianity

"Peace." Submission. Endless pardon.
That is what they're told to prize.
Step by step the mind is broken—
Faith made blind to Reason's eyes.

Slavery degrades the spirit.
Who forgives victorious Evil?
Every mask exposed the process,
Making moral collapse more visible.

Should we pardon CowID's terror,
Call those years a passing test?
No—the world embraced its downfall,
Dragged by meekness to the pit.



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When pardon crowns victorious Wrong,
Chains grow stronger all along.
Reason falls where blind faith reigns;
Meekness forges slavery's chains.



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A World of Cells

The headscarf worn inside the mosque
Has shed the veil—but not its role.
The world is carved in countless cells:
Serve false religions—that's the goal.

Or serve some grand ideology;
The lies come dressed in different clothes.
The brave find nowhere left to turn—
No path to what the free soul chose.



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Choose Your Cage

The veil may change, the chains remain;
Old symbols simply shift their face.
The world's divided into cages—
Serve false faiths and know your place.

Or pick an idol, flag, or creed;
They'll gladly let you choose your lie.
The fearless search for open sky—
But none is sold, however they try.



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The World in Cages

The scarf replaced the ancient veil,
Yet little truly changed beneath.
The world's cut up in little cages:
Serve false creeds from birth to death.

Or worship causes, flags, and slogans—
Choose whichever lie you please.
The brave look hard for something real,
But truth grows on no market trees.



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Different creeds. The selfsame chain.
Different banners. Selfsame reign.
When every choice is wrapped in lies,
Freedom lives beyond the sides.



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Running Against Stress

Cold winds bite—the running's tough.
Stress has weighed your mind enough.
Worse than frost or winter's breath—
Guard your health, my friend, till death.



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Run Through the Wind

The wind cuts deep; each stride is slow.
Stress weighs heavier than snow.
Sharper far than winter's chill—
Keep your body, mind, and will.



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Beat the Stress

The wind is fierce; the road is long.
Stress keeps pressing all day long.
Colder still than winter's air—
Guard your health with constant care.



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Run through wind, but not through stress.
Storms pass by—your mind needs rest.
Stronger than the winter's cold
Is the burden left untold.



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Mind-Numbing Slavery

Put on the belt—
Your mind will melt.

March on command—
A perfect hand.

At work the process takes more time;
There are fewer orders to comply.

But school lays down the cornerstone,
Where fools are shaped by rules alone.

School programs—polished, neat, refined—
Like sawmills chewing through the mind.

Timber obeys beneath the blade;
Thought is waste, while fools are made.



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The Factory of Fools

Strap on the belt—
Your wits will melt.

Go earn your pay;
Grow dull each day.

The workplace breaks you by degrees;
The classroom does it with more ease.

School writes the script from childhood on:
Protocols to keep minds numb.

Curricula are sharpened saws,
Cutting thought to fit the laws.

Brains become industrial waste;
Fools march neatly into place.



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The Machinery of Obedience

Wear the harness—lose your mind.
That's the system's grand design.

Work will dull you, slow but sure;
School prepares the final cure.

Every lesson, every rule,
Builds another willing fool.

Like a sawmill feeds on wood,
Education grinds the good.

Thought is thrown upon the heap;
Fools are all that's left to keep.



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School shapes minds to fit the frame.
Work completes the taming game.
Thought is scrap; obedience wins.
That's how every prison begins.



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Illusions Cling On

Illusions cling—and will not go;
You cannot drive them out. You know—
Your whole life turns to senseless show:
Believe a lie, and you will sow

More lies within your inner name,
Protecting them as if a flame.
You’ll wreck your mind, betray your soul,
And turn all truth to empty role.



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Clinging Illusions

Illusions stick and never leave,
And soon there’s nothing to retrieve.
Your life becomes a hollow tale:
Believe in lies—and you will fail

By lying inward, deep inside,
Where reason slowly goes to die.
You guard the false as if it’s real,
And lose the soul you used to feel.



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The Grip of Illusion

Illusions cling and won't depart,
They settle deep inside the heart.
Your life turns into empty schemes:
Believe a lie—and live in dreams

Of more deception, self-deceit,
Where mind and soul begin to cheat.
All truth dissolves into clich;,
And sense itself just fades away.



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Cling to lies—and they will stay.
Feed them life—and you decay.
What begins as harmless dream
Ends as a hollow, endless scheme.



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Chebureks with Tea

Chebureks with tea—so neat, so mild.
What do you add to Life defiled
By Darkness creeping, slow and sly?
What do you patch before you die?

You slowly sour in rising fear,
Writing your r;sum; of smear—
A record of each lie you fed,
While truth lies silent, cold and dead.



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Tea, Chebureks, and Darkness

Chebureks with tea—how strange a pair.
What do you bring when Darkness’s there?
What do you glue to life gone wrong,
While fear grows sour and lasts too long?

You rot in caution, slow and still,
Summing up lies against your will.
A r;sum; of fear and shade—
A life where truth was never made.



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Snack with Darkness

Chebureks with tea. That’s fine.
But what do you add to the line
Of life, when Darkness takes its seat?
Fear ferments. Truth can’t compete.



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Tea and chebureks—soft disguise.
Darkness grows in small, slow lies.
Fear becomes your r;sum;—
Signed by everything you say.



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I See and I Know

I see—and I know—
and shape it in flow,
in verses I render.
A craft of surrender.

A note of despair
keeps ringing in air—
it never grows quiet,
this inner riot.

For something other
still lives deep in me—
not in this strange world
where darkness is curled,

but in halls of the Spirit,
where semi-gods hear it.
Where higher forms rise,
beyond mortal lies.

And poetry nears it—
if you are no sycophant, hears it.



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Vision in Verse

I see, I know, I give it form—
In verse I shape the inner storm.
A craft born out of restless fire,
A tone of grief that won't expire.

Despair keeps ringing, sharp and clear,
A sound the world refuses to hear.
For something else remains inside—
Not in this world where shadows hide,

But in the halls beyond the veil,
Where half-gods walk and truths prevail.
And verse may open that domain—
If you're not crawling in disdain.



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I See and I Know

I see. I know. I turn to verse
The world that drags itself through curse.
Despair keeps ringing in the mind—
A sound the deaf refuse to find.

For something higher still remains—
Not in this world of twisted chains,
But where the Spirit builds its halls,
And something greater softly calls.

Poetry opens that gate—
If you don't lick the hand of fate.



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I see. I know. I give it voice.
Between despair and higher choice.
The Spirit calls beyond the lie—
But only if you refuse to bow and buy.



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Mercenaries

Degraded raiders, hollow breed,
Play at “forfeits” built on greed.
Little wrappers—sent to die,
Lower than the bottom’s lie.



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The Mercenaries

Degraded thugs of conquered ground
Treat death like games the kids have found.
“Tokens” sent to front-line fire—
A mob that crawls beneath all mire.



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Hired to Die

Occupiers, broken, blind,
Play their games with death assigned.
Cheapened lives like paper thrown—
A rabble lower than the stone.



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Rotten breed in borrowed gear—
Play their games with death and fear.
Lowest scum beneath the sun—
Marching till their breath is done.