Буйство Творчества, The Riot of Creation

Режим. Гнобим.
ЧЁРТ с ним — как дым
Исчезнет в Бездне
И с шеи слезет.




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



Дни лихие.
Психбольные.
Никакие
Перспективы —
У ОБРыва.




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



Твари в Мари. Идиоты
За бесценок на работЫ.
Единицы не уроды —
Остальные сумасброды.




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



Эго — небо помрачело.
Ты дурак, дурак дебелый.
Несовместны эго, Дело:
Чушь отринь, и в Поиск смело.



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



Писать о псах, котах и мышках,
Пробившись с чушью в детски книжки,
Затем в эротику податься —
МаЕстрой станешь, может статься.

Кричать о Мерзостях, утратах —
И неминуема расплата.
Известен тот, кто на подхвате
В Большой Смурной Шестой Палате.




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



Душа наружу рвётся, плача,
Забыв препоны и удачи.
Духовный мир — там всё иначе.
Познать его — твоя задача.



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



Буйство Творчества

Маэстро Похуизма,
Презрения к толпе,
Клеймения фашизма
И тупости в жлобе —

Себе он только нужен
Для буйных развлекух.
Не буйствуешь, натужен —
И пошлость режет слух.



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



No Hunt for Wolves — For There Are No Wolves

Wolf hunting — what a sight?
Just “Get ’em!” for fools to bite!
It’s become the common fashion:
Idiots knead dough of passion—

Dough of Lies and Fear, in masses,
Till through media’s dark glasses
Honor, Conscience both are drowned.
Not a song — Hell’s tale unbound.

And the wolves? They’re hardly there.
In these bitter times of despair,
CowID — few could ever dare
To bite at NOTHING in the air.

Nothing — sheep. A “virus” bleating,
Sheepish brains with madness feeding.
All the hunting has gone rotten;
Only vomit-Lies remain forgotten.

Vomit — half-wolves, pale and hollow.
Nothing useful waits to follow
From their howling, from their bites —
They can’t disturb the gnats’ delights.

Gnats are everywhere — fake nations,
Cowering freaks of degradation.
Thus our troubles, without cease,
Will grow worse. Yet Nature’s peace—

Nature cannot bear much longer
All this filth. The Light grows stronger:
The Sun burns Hell, where, in the end,
The wolf’s just one more common fiend.



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



The Riot of Creation

Maestro of I Don’t Care,
Who scorns the stupid crowd,
Who brands the fascist snare
And mocks the boor aloud—

He needs no one but him,
For wild delights and play.
If you don’t rage on a whim,
Banalities have sway.



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




Bad days.
Mad minds.
No ways.
No signs.
At the brink.



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



The Soul Breaks Free

The Soul bursts out in tears,
Through barriers, hopes, and fears.
The Spirit’s world is different there —
Go seek it, if you truly dare.



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



The Half-Baked Poet and the Universal Rot

The half-baked poet
Spouts worn-out trash and rot,
The “peoples” love and cherish —
The fools who think they’re not.

“Patriot” — sweet and silly,
That’s all the fake folk crave:
Decay goes down through generations,
With Belly as their god and slave.

Their brains are washed to order,
The fools believe the Lie,
And every shameless falsehood
Makes them meaner by and by.

The half-baked poet
Spouts worn-out trash and rot,
The “peoples” love and cherish —
The fools who think they’re not.

A fascist order, built to last,
Has set its iron frame:
They distract the fool with labels,
Just rename the very same.

Each label ends in “-ism” —
They swallow it once more.
Idiocy has knocked the Bottom out
And made the fool the norm.

The half-baked poet
Spouts worn-out trash and rot,
The “peoples” love and cherish —
The fools who think they’re not.

There’s no way out, no future left —
Madness hunts the Mind,
While media keep goading fools
To turn on humankind.

They herd the useful cattle
Into the Digital Camp;
CowID showed the final proof —
The Mind was nearly stamped.

And Spirit, too, is penned inside.
The media shriek and sting,
Multiplying every sickness —
A plague of servile sheep.

The half-baked poet
Spouts worn-out trash and rot,
The “peoples” love and cherish —
The fools who think they’re not.

The plans of monsters, vast and grand,
The idiots can’t control.
A cataclysm is drawing near —
And fascism takes its toll.

For all their lies and stupid pride,
Their world will crash and burn;
The “poet” never saw it coming —
The Universal Rot had won.

The half-baked poet
Spouts worn-out trash and rot,
The “peoples” love and cherish —
The fools who think they’re not.



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



The Basis of Proper Nutrition — “Pea Porridge”

“Pea porridge” — our daily fare:
A fart is “thought” — beware!
For every pea is packed with Lies,
And Fear is butter in disguise.

It makes us tremble, makes us choke,
Then fart — and rally round the smoke!
And once again we start to build
Some fresh monstrosity, self-willed —

Just change its name, and call the pain
A “decent” thing, a “proper” gain.
Put Treason down into the core,
Then dress Corruption up once more.

Venality will play the Great,
With piles of cash to decorate,
While grinding down the ones nearby —
And calling this “necessity.”

The peas have rotted. Butter’s gone
All rancid. Farts now poison dawn.
Well then — go find a gas-mask fast,
Or you won’t make it through the blast.

For among us there’s little chance
To dodge the march of Decadence.
The gas-mask is Clear Thought made real —
Not borrowed “views” we fear and feel,

Not slogans learned beneath attack,
Not frightened dogma stuffed in black.
A lucid Thought stands under Spirit —
But fails when stupid templates steer it,

Dragging the mind, both deaf and numb,
Through tons of Nonsense, one by one.



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



The Poet of Pups and Pussy Cats

Write of dogs and little mice,
Stuff childish books with “wisdom” twice,
Then turn to erotica —
And presto! You’re a Maestro, ha!

Cry out of Horrors, grief and loss —
Then comes the bill, whatever the cost.
Soon you’re famous, on call and ready,
In the Great Grim Ward — Chamber Six, already.



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



Dispossession and the Plight of Half-Souls

Bitch. Mandate.
Boss — incarnate
Beast — sent him out
To stamp Will out.

Years have gone.
Doom dragged on.
Mow the soulless —
Sly and shameless.

Hell to Hell,
The profiteer fell;
Glad of the rule,
Drinking media drool,

He plods, he guards
“Order” by shards.
The brute reaches New Hell —
And loves the way he fell.



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



The Regime

Regime. Oppress.
To Hell with this mess —
Like smoke, it will fade,
And slip from our necks,
To the Abyss be made.



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



Monsters in the Mire

Monsters in the mire — fools in a row,
Selling themselves for next to no dough.
A handful are decent, standing their ground;
The rest are madmen, lost and unsound.



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



Ego

Ego — darkens all the sky,
Fool, you’re thick, and don’t know why.
Ego and the Work don’t blend —
Cast the nonsense off, and Seek the end!











Все стихи здесь: https://vykhovanets.yzz.me

Исполненные песни и озвученные стихи: https://my.mail.ru/list/flashscript/music/media