35 poems

The Collapse of “Foundations”

The fall of so-called “foundations,”
Rules for foolish generations,
That prop up goat-like rule and throne
More tightly than deceitful stone.

A task is set. And you must see:
Ignore it—and all lies will be
A swamp of rot, a living stain,
For in command stands not the vain,

But something worse—inhuman will.
So drop your pride, your fears, stand still:
Search, struggle, choose the clearer way,
And save your soul from night’s decay.

The TRUE FOUNDATION—Spirit pure.
To servants of the dark, no cure:
It strikes more fear than death itself,
And drives their doubts from mental shelf,

It clears the mind, reduces lies
To dust where all deception dies.
It strips the Evil bare and whole—
A dangerous light that burns the soul.

If you have grasped what this may mean,
You will not serve the filth obscene.
You’ll seek companions, few but true—
Not kneel to all that’s false and due.

But if you wait for some to come
From darkness, saving “the dumb ones,”
Then you are mad beyond repair—
A mind dissolved in stagnant air.



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Breaking the False Foundations

The breaking of “foundations” old—
False codes that keep the foolish told,
That hold the goat-like rulers high
With knots of lies that never die.

A task is set. Ignore it not—
Or rot will claim the human plot.
For in control is not mere crime,
But something darker, out of time.

So cast away both fear and pride:
Seek, fight, and choose the clearest side.
That is the path that saves the soul
From turning into ash and coal.

The TRUE FOUNDATION—Spirit bright—
To servants of the dark, pure fright.
It burns the doubt, it strips disguise,
And lays all falsehood bare to eyes.

Who understands will not obey
The filth that drags the world away.
He seeks allies, few but strong,
And will not serve what’s foul and wrong.

But those who wait for rescue sent
To “free the world” from its descent—
Are lost already, mind undone,
With reason gone, with truth outdone.



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Antarctica’s Confusion

In Antarctica—confusion:
Winter brings a mild intrusion,
Weakest frost, as years are few—
Yet more threats keep breaking through.

Sunlight grows with harsher fire;
Chances shrink and hopes expire.
No survival in the scheme—
Only madness feeds the dream.

Propaganda, darker, thicker,
Claims the world is self-made sickness:
Cows are blamed for “toxic air,”
Humans guilty everywhere—

CO; and freon blamed,
Truth itself completely maimed.
Lies like plague now rule the age,
Spreading through a poisoned stage.

This is twilight—final season.
Ask your soul for higher reason.
Few ascend to Spirit’s shore;
Those who listen fall to war

In a new infernal scheme—
When the mind has lost its beam.



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Antarctic Signs

Antarctica—something’s wrong:
Winters weak when they should be strong.
Time runs short, the threats increase,
Building tension without peace.

Sun burns brighter every year;
Chances vanish, cold and clear.
No escape left in the plan—
Madness teaches what it can.

Propaganda twists the story:
Human guilt becomes their glory.
Cows emit the “final doom,”
CO; fills every room—

Freon too, the global sin—
Lies now crawling under skin.
Truth is plague in modern age,
Scripted on a viral stage.

Last era. Choose what you defend:
Spirit’s rise or final end.
Few will reach the higher flame;
Others sink in Hell’s new name.



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Sun grows hot where ice should reign.
Truth dissolves in streams of blame.
Few ascend. The rest decline—
Into ages past the line.



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Hitler Was Prepared

They groomed Hitler—gave him green light,
A planned ascent, a staged invite.
What sentence stood for “rebellion”? Five years claimed—
That’s how the record was framed.

He served just nine months—then came “treason’s” call,
And yet they still believe the tale of all:
That he rose alone, by his own design—
A self-made myth, a scripted line.



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The Green Light

Hitler was prepared—green light was set.
What sentence for revolt? Five years they met.
He served but nine months—then “treason” sealed his fate.
And still they sell the myth: he rose self-made, innate.



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The Story They Tell

He was prepared—there was a green-lit path.
Five years the “punishment” for aftermath.
Nine months he served before the “treason” claim—
Yet still they teach the myth of self-made fame.



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Green light given. Script in hand.
Short the sentence, staged the plan.
History dressed as “self-made rise”—
A tale repeated through disguise.



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What Can I Write About?

What shall I write? The summer’s chill,
The winter cold that lingers still?
But warming in the Zoo we see—
No topic left, it seems, for me.

I force myself to sing of “growth,”
Of progress wrapped in empty oath,
While forgetting Press of Beasts
That bent the world in savage feasts

In CowID’s raging, bitter time.
Regression now is every line.
To write of mind? Don’t even try—
The fool is crowned, the truth will die.

To write of friendship—bright and kind?
Most serve the Beast; the gentle mind
Is left alone, a “madman’s” role,
Cast out beyond the common whole.

To write of love? A poet’s game—
Sweet nothings burning into shame?
I’ll pass that theme; for years have shown
Love twisted, mocked, and overthrown.

Jealousy rules where love should live;
No space for what the heart can give.
Friendship and love—both crushed and bent
By measures Evil has long sent.

These norms now rule the world entire—
Overton windows built of liar’s fire.
If honesty still guides your pen,
Then write—but write against all men.

For dulling, rot, and mental chain
Now rhyme with every form of pain.
Resistance rises through the word—
The sharpest weapon ever heard.

A war of language comes before
The final shot, the final roar.
The “argument” becomes the gun
When all other battles are done.

Fake science, faiths that lie and cheat,
And media’s global deceit
Bend minds like shackles forged from lies—
So write of this, if truth survives.



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What to Write About

What can I write? The cooling air,
The summer heat, the winter’s stare?
But warming Zoo—the theme is dead,
No honest topic left to thread.

I try to write of “progress” bright,
While Press of Beasts hides out of sight,
That bent the world in CowID’s reign—
Where sense dissolved into disdain.

To write of thought? The age says no.
The fool is crowned; the wise must go.
To write of friends? Most serve the Beast—
The gentle mind is last and least.

To write of love? The same old play—
Jealousy rules the human way.
These themes are all already chained
By lies the Overton has trained.

So dullness, rot, and mental fall
Now rhyme and echo through it all.
But words still fight—though weak they seem—
The first line in a larger scheme.

For war begins inside the phrase,
Before the weapons, before the blaze.
When truth is banned, when minds are bent,
The pen becomes the last dissent.



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What can I write when truth is banned?
When lies are law across the land?
The poem itself becomes the fight—
A spark that cuts through managed night.



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Clown Politicians and the Inhuman

—Are we
ruled by
a clown?—
—No, worse:
the inhuman crown!

Enchanted
by nonsense—
the crowd
lies softened in endless

streams of deceit.
And the masses don’t see—
all is darkness. Nearly
seven-eighths are fools, you see.



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Clowns and the Inhuman

—Are we ruled
by a clown?—
—No: inhuman
wears the crown.

Hypnotized
by nonsense spread,
the crowd walks blind,
softly led

by lies laid out
like velvet sheets.
And no one sees
the dark they meet—

seven-eighths
have lost their mind,
left the thinking
far behind.



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The Rulers

—Clown in power?—
—No, inhuman.
Crowd is dazzled
by their sermon.

Lies are gentle,
spread like balm.
People stumble,
lost and calm.

Blindness rules them
through and through—
seven-eighths
don’t have a clue.



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Clown or monster? Still they kneel.
Lies become the way they feel.
Crowd in darkness, mind erased—
Seven parts of eight misplaced.



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Sink or Swim

Sink—
think.

Poverty
turns to grace
if you stand
outside the race.

Lost in crowds
that chew and kill?—
No. Never.
Not my will.



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Sink / Think

Sink—
or think.

If alone,
there is grace;
beauty lives
outside the race.

In the herd,
the stupid flow?—
No. I refuse.
Let it go.



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Copy / Drop

Copy—
drop.

Poverty
can turn to light
if you stand
outside the fight.

In the dumb
crowd’s endless reel?—
I refuse.
Not my deal.



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Sink or think.
Crowd or soul.
Alone can shine.
The herd will pull you whole.



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The Quality of Bastardry

The art of being a bastard grows—
Each passing day it higher goes.
No homeland left, no place to stand—
We rot in Hell across the land.

A shortage now of fire and flame.



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Rising Bastardry

The skill of bastardry climbs high—
With every day it touches sky.
No fatherland remains in sight—
We all decay in Hell’s own light.

A deficit of flame and pain.



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Quality Rising

The quality of bastardry
Improves with every passing day.
No homeland left, no place to be—
We rot in Hell’s entropy.

A shortage now of burning flame.



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Bastards rise. The homeland dies.
Hell expands beneath our eyes.
Only ashes left to claim—
And a deficit of flame.



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Trifles of Pseudo-Life

The petty things called “life”
rise like a wall—
so vanish them all,
be yourself at all.

Into the hermit’s cell:
thoughts, revelations,
rare proclamations—
amid decomposition.

And no more
prophecies needed—
the herd is well-fed,
half-dead, unheeded.

The main prophecy stands—
the fast-approaching end.
No need to describe
how light will descend—

it has already started.
That is the law to attend:

Can you, in Hell itself,
hear the Spirit’s call—
and save your soul
in a world that falls?



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Trifles of a Fake Life

The “little things” of life
build up a wall—
escape it all,
be true or fall.

To solitude—retreat:
thought, insight, flame,
rare prophecy
through ruin and shame.

No prophecies remain—
the herd wants only feed:
to eat, to sleep,
to never read.

The only prophecy left—
the swift end near.
No need to paint
what’s already here.

It has begun.
The law is plain:

Can you hear Spirit
through Hell’s own chain—
and save your soul
in a world insane?



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Trifles of False Life

The “trifles” rise like walls around—
escape, become yourself, unbound.

In solitude:
thought, rare sight,
rare prophecy
in endless night.

No need for prophecy anymore—
the herd wants sleep, and nothing more.

The final prophecy is clear—
the end is already here.

And now the law is this alone:
Can Spirit’s voice in Hell be known?

Or will the soul be lost in sight
of a collapsing world of night?



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Trifles rise like prison walls.
Spirit whispers through the fall.
Prophecy is nearly done—
The end has already begun.



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The Law of Large Numbers

Old age. Exhaustion. Heavy strain.
Endure—there’s little left in pain.
A New Hell? Or somewhere worse?
Just no more falseness in this curse.

The world is fake, insane, untrue—
Loud, shameless, rotten through and through.
It’s in the gut, it won’t depart—
Its essence: war, and CowID’s art.

It showed: there is no chance at all
To halt the tide of downfall.
Old age becomes the final prize—
No need to struggle, just demise.

Survival ; decomposition.
That is the system’s hidden mission:
To crush all striving toward the Light,
And drag it down beneath all sight,

Killing soul, mind, and fading pride.
To “survive” in Hell inside?—
That is the definition clear:
Is this life—or rot while still here?

Old age is body’s slow decay.
From youth—the soul is led away.
And what remains at journey’s end?
A broken path that will not mend.

Counting sparks of scattered grace
Won’t change the rule of this dark place:
The law of numbers rules the game—
And madness rises all the same.

We’ve crossed the line beyond control;
Insanity now seals the whole.
A New Hell—there is no escape:
The fate of all in final shape.



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Law of Large Numbers

Old age. Exhaustion. Final drain.
Just endure—there’s little gain.
A New Hell? Or worse to come?
Only truth: the fake is done.

The world is loud, corrupt, obscene,
A brutal, shameless, viral scene.
Its essence: war and CowID’s trace—
A system built on human waste.

It proved: no exit from the fall,
No stopping of the rise of rot at all.
Old age becomes the final grace—
No need to win this losing race.

Survival turns to slow decay—
That is the rule we live today.
To reach the Light? It’s buried deep
Beneath the lies we’re forced to keep.

The soul is drained, the mind erased.
Survival here? A Hell embraced.
Is this called life—or slow decay?
The same end waits in every way.

From youth the spirit is confined.
At end—just wreckage left behind.
And counting “sparks” won’t change the law—
The system feeds on what we saw.

Madness has crossed the final line.
No turning back, no place to climb.
A New Hell waits—no other door:
The fate of all forevermore.



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Numbers grow. Meaning dies.
Madness rules through measured lies.
Survival turns into decay—
And there is no other way.



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The Law of Money

The slaves of money always strive—
One single law keeps them alive.
No exit left for those who fight,
Except the few who stand in light,

Alone, and sharp against the flow.
It isn’t senseless, you should know—
You save your soul within the frame
Of Earth’s corrupted, brutal game.

And if you’re not devoured, gone—
Then you’re the goat among the swan.



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The Law of Gold

The slaves of cash will always crawl—
One law commands and drives them all.
No way out left for those who strive,
Except the few who stay alive

Alone, awake, against the tide.
It is not pointless to decide—
You save your soul within the night
Of Earth consumed by ruling blight.

And if you’re not among the lost—
You’re goat among the flock it costs.



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Money’s Law

To money slaves all paths are clear:
Obey, pursue, and disappear.
No exit for the massed and blind—
Only the few remain aligned,

Alone against the ruling scheme.
Not meaningless—it guards the beam:
You save your soul inside the play
Of Earth that rots in full decay.

And if you’re still not swept away—
You’re goat among the sheep today.



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Money rules the crawling herd.
Few resist and keep the word.
Not all are lost in blinded crime—
Some stand alone against their time.