84 poems

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.



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



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.



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



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.