17 poems

The Secret Files

The secret files of cops and spies
Reveal such depths of filth and lies,
That all the “foe from foreign lands”
Seems like a child with toys in hand.
We drown in darkness, foul and deep—
No light, no dawn, no wake from sleep.



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The Secret Files

The secret files of spies and cops
Reveal such filth, such sewer-drops,
That any “foe from foreign ground”
Seems like a sandbox brat around.
All darkness… darkness without end—
And Hell itself seems just a friend.



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“Survival” on the Slaughter Block

“Survival” — their only creed,
In Fascist filth they rot and bleed.
Fear in hearts, and sheep for brains,
Brutal Lies become their chains.

No prospects, nowhere left to go—
So timid, stupid, bent and low.



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Gutta-Percha People

Gutta-percha people sway,
A bureaucrat on hinges plays.
Puppets dance upon command,
While a Devil runs the band.
He feasts on all their cheap display—
And laughs as puppets waste away.



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Gutta-Percha People

Gutta-percha folks on strings,
Bureaucrats with jointed wings.
Puppets dance upon the tray—
A Devil runs the circus play.
He gorges on their groans and acts,
And feeds on fools in cheap theatrics.



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No Serfs for Poets

No serfs are meant for poets’ pens—
Yet all would rule as little kings.
Their “thoughts” are deep, or so they claim…
Look closer—FOOLS are all the same!



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Poets Have No Serfs

No serfs for poets—none to spare;
Yet every fool would rule from there.
“Profound” their thoughts? They proudly croak…
Just test them out—they’re bloody yokels!



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The Bottom of Poetry

Downhill my life began to slide—
The “bandit’s” road, not fool’s, went wide.
Then suddenly I hit the pit,
The coding pit—and sank in it.

But that was hardly cause for tears:
I started writing songs for years.
Then poems came, a steady stream—
Too late to save me from the dream.

A poet’s days are hard indeed
Amid the world’s delirious creed,
When Truth exposes chains of lies:
The only lower step—to snitch.




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A Fool’s “Thought”

A wretch sits thinking, lost in fright,
Amidst the lies and endless night.
He won’t, as once, go to the crowd—
There is no people, just a mob.



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How the Winds of Travel Blow the Last of Reason Away

“Is it any wonder that travel does you no good
if everywhere you go, you carry yourself along?”
— Socrates


You drag yourself through lands of lies,
And find the same reflection there
Of what each sheep beneath the skies
Dreams to be true — some fresh affair.

A different lie, a brighter scheme,
Can never change the final scene:
The world’s a vast and wretched pen,
Where darkness breeds its cattle-men.

It crushes Spirit, Honor, Mind,
Then calls the sameness “Diversity”—
And leaves the herd, both deaf and blind,
To graze in chains eternally.



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Carousel of Lies

Round and round the carousel spins,
A lullaby for fools begins:
Lie after lie rolls off the line—
The wretched crowd awaits “news” time.

They chase the “happiness” ahead,
By every hollow promise led.
“Joy” is built from lies and schemes,
With skyscrapers of falsehoods’ dreams.

Mirages rise, then disappear—
No meaning waits behind them here.
The “sacred bonds” that hold the herd?
Fear—and the media’s endless word.



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Cat Food Fast-Food

A cat hooked on fast-food fare
Leaves his “master” trembling there.
He fears some awful trouble’s due—
The world grows mad, and cats do too.

Genocide has touched them all,
No creature’s safe when madness calls.
Not even cats can dodge the trend—
And FOOLS? There’s no one left to mend.



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The Cadre Forge

A crafty lowlife,
Sharp as a knife,
Climbs to the top—
Won’t ever stop.

His handle: “Stork.”
If “Tit” gives the word,
The “Stork” rides high—
And spreads his lie.

Fraud everywhere,
Fakes fill the air—
And the “people” below
Are wretched and low.



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Lies Overflow — the World Is Gone;
The Ninth Wave of Fear Rolls On.



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Manna from the Ass

You see just filth in daily life,
Yet check the words that once impressed—
Behind the pomp, behind the strife,
You’ll find Fascism, dressed as best.

Rumors twist the words they spread;
From childhood, Lies become your guide.
Yet promised are the fields ahead—
For those who serve the Dark inside.

To serve the Dark through filth and lies
Is called “your fate,” or “life,” or “choice.”
A vulgar slave, with vacant eyes,
Believes the lie because they voice.

But one who thinks, when all is shit,
Knows words may change, while chains remain;
The slave-built order, piece by bit,
Returns—and Fear and Media reign.

He weighs it all and sees no road,
No future anywhere in sight.
The Earth’s one giant festering sore—
The scalpel’s wielded by a wight.

The pus will burst, engulfing all—
A Flood of filth, a final drop.
Meanwhile, they march in one great throng,
Chasing their “happiness”: Manna from the Ass.



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The “Culture” Tripwire in the World’s Pigsty

A centipede in marching stride
Suddenly swells with martial pride,
And belts a bold and battle song—
It’s had no sense since life began.

Then “culture” trips the stupid beast—
A stumbling block, a rotten feast.
Such metaphors abound and thrive
In this decrepit world alive.

But worst of all—the global sty,
Where frayed-out nerves just slowly die.
“Upbringing” turns to force-fed swill,
And “education” checks the fill:

The pig has reached its proper weight,
Yet knows no shit about its state.
It’s easy, then, to make it cheer:
Just lie to it and feed it fear.

Drug the whole pen, deceive the swine,
Pour poison into every mind—
And freedom, dreamed through smoke and dread,
Will seem like slop the pigs are fed.

For centuries the cycle rolls:
First fatten bodies, butcher souls.
Soul-slaughter makes the loudest cheer;
When Reason dies, the cider’s clear.

And still the Pigsty grows more foul—
A stinking monument to all
That passes for “culture” and “care,”
While empty heads just breathe its air.



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Chipped

With smartphone-chips of Lies installed,
The fool is tracked at their command.
Today the Bastards find it easy
To steer the fools and keep them queasy:

To trace their every step and roam,
To track their whereabouts at home,
And feed them lies, both fast and slick—
All through the little glowing brick.