75 poems

Need for a New Search Engine

A goblin now! Alas, mankind
Was human once — in times behind.
The newest search must seek and find
A human soul of rarer kind.

Then place it in the Red Book's page,
A species lost in this dark age.
Without such care, beyond dispute,
The breed may vanish — absolute.



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A New Search

A goblin age. The human's gone,
A relic of a bygone dawn.
Search far and wide — find even one,
Then mark it rare before it's done.

Into the Red Book, seal the proof:
Without that step, they're quite aloof —
Extinct beneath the digital roof.



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Tolerasty

Propaganda is not grace.
Lies now flood the public space.
"Tolerasty" serves as a blade,
To leave the mind confused and swayed.

Once the mind is sick and weak,
Nods approval, dares not speak.
Nothing seems too far or grim—
Genocide keeps wearing thin

Mind and Honor, Justice too,
Wrapped in "care" that's false all through.
What that "caring" truly meant
Was revealed by plague's descent.

Fools obeyed without a fight,
Sleeves rolled up and called it right.
"Tolerasty" spreads decay,
Rotting younger minds away.

It has done so, does so still,
And it will with tireless will.
Traitors multiply like slime—
This world's an asylum doing time.



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Tolerasty

Tolerance? No—propagandist art,
A weapon aimed straight at the heart.
Break the mind and make it kneel,
Teach it not to think or feel.

Honor dies and Justice fades,
Hidden under "caring" shades.
Traitors thrive while fools comply—
Prison-world beneath mad skies.



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Nest of Fools

Fools abound of every breed,
Very few resist their greed.
In the current grand promotion,
Selling out is true devotion.

Like a nesting doll they grow,
Not a pyramid we know.
Wait a little—watch the day
When the mob sweeps minds away.

CowID has shown the game:
Eat and drink—but just the same,
Only if you kneel and bow,
Wear obedience somehow.

Life itself becomes a loan,
Freedom's roots are overthrown.
Fascism comes, step after step,
Turning crowds to counted sheep.

Down the stairs of Hell they slide,
Lower still with every stride.
Soon a fresh and magic brew
Will be waiting there for you.

Power builds its towering frame;
Knowledge points the other way.
Add decay's matryoshka scheme—
Global Fascism supreme.



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Matryoshka of Fools

Fools in layers, fools in rows,
Each one selling what he knows.
Nested dolls of slow decay,
Dragging every mind away.

CowID exposed the plan:
Obey first to live as man.
Step by step through Hell they crawl,
Global Fascism crowns it all.



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All Sorts of Creatures

A crafty rogue won't lose his tail —
The rascal's tricks will rarely fail.
I rather like the seals at sea:
More laziness means less cruelty.

The Chukchi hunt the seals, it's true,
Yet idleness brings blunders too.
So where's the golden middle span
For one who's Human — not a beast, but Man?



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Every Kind of Creature

A sly old rogue survives with ease,
Escaping traps and penalties.
I favor seals upon the shore:
The lazier, the less they war.

Yet hunters chase them day and night,
And sloth itself can cloud the sight.
So where's the balance, wise and plain,
For Man—not beast—through loss and gain?



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The Golden Mean

The rogue survives by cunning skill,
The seal by laziness and will.
One's far too sharp, one's far too tame—
Where stands the Human in this game?



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The Shitty Heights

"The lofty ranks," they proudly claim—
Yet filth has soaked their halls of fame.
Their past was built on treachery,
Mocking the weak relentlessly.

The common crowd grows duller still,
More easy prey for lies and will.
Officials play at being gods,
While swine bow low before the frauds.

The more a swine defiles the ground,
The higher honors he has found.
The dear old plebs endure it all—
For fools remain the majority's call.

CowID proved the lesson well,
As did the drums of war and hell.
Dump misery upon the land,
Then hide it with a lying hand.

The lies are endless, vast, and deep;
Yet "care" is what they call the heap.
The fool applauds the grand disguise,
Preferring comfort over eyes.

They "care" enough to herd the mass
Into a camp behind the glass.
A red cross waving overhead—
Where thought itself is left for dead.

That camp is global, vast, and new,
Digital through and through.
If crowds remain so meek and blind,
With broken spirit, broken mind,

Success is guaranteed indeed,
As swine receive their wage for greed.
A house, a car, rewards bestowed—
While human worth corrodes and erodes.

The world is nearly stripped away
Of what made humans human, say;
And every year, by foul design,
The count approaches ninety-nine.



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The Lofty Swine

The higher climbs the ruling swine,
The deeper sinks the grand design.
A mountain built of lies and fear,
Yet fools still cheer what they should fear.

They call it "care," they call it "good,"
They herd the crowds as cattle would.
The camp goes global, line by line—
A post-human world for the lofty swine.



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Molasses

"They curse him from each side they can,
Yet when his lifeless form they see,
They'll grasp how much he did for man,
And how he loved through enmity."
— Nikolai Nekrasov, 1852

Again, but few will understand;
The crowd still follows sweetened verse.
Fools crave delightful sleight of hand—
A sugared lie to mask the worse.

To reach Olympus, one must feed
The masses syrup, thick and bland.
The mighty media serve that need,
Promoting those who fit the plan.

A poet, in the common way,
May earn applause and high regard;
Yet if he cooks up sweet clich;,
He's serving fraud—and serving hard.



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Sweet Syrup

Few understand. The crowd prefers
The singer of convenient lies.
Sweet syrup sells; harsh truth deters;
Thus flatterers collect the prize.

Olympus reeks, but fame is bought
By those who soothe the herd with dreams.
A poet who makes syrup rot
Is just another cog in schemes.



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Treacle

Again the few will understand;
The herd pursues the lyric clown.
Feed fools with sugar, soft and bland—
That's how one wins the laurel crown.

Olympus stinks. The mass media
Promote what suits the beasts in charge.
A poet's just a scoundrel too
If he brews treacle by the barge.



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Lyrical Bleating

"Lyric" verse in chains and cages
Is nonsense for the simple sages.
Such is now the world's condition—
Evil's catch in vast addition.

Truth stands higher than mere speech,
Dwelling inward, out of reach.
Donkeys won't be brought around,
So stay watchful for what's found:

Flashes of the inner light;
Dump the rotten sludge outright.
Throw the garbage down the drain—
We've endured enough of brain-

Poison spread like toxic gas.
Give fools orders—they will pass
Every test of servitude;
Rot has soaked their attitude.

CowID exposed the scale:
Reason's all but gone and pale.
Exceptions? Count them if you dare—
Like counting ravens in the air.

Year by year the damage grows,
Dealt by creatures, friends and foes.
Now the summit stands in sight;
Darkness presses with its might.

For such times, let verses burn.
Rage has lessons still to learn.
This world's not shaped for meek refrain,
For sheepish bleating, mild and tame.



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Lyrical Bleating

Lyrical bleating, soft and sweet,
Fits a herd that's learned defeat.
Truth lives deeper, past the noise,
Hidden from obedient toys.

CowID revealed the cost:
Reason crippled, honor lost.
Count the thinkers? Count the crows—
Rare as winter's withered rose.

Rot runs deep in mind and nerve;
Fools obey, and tyrants serve.
Rage is better suited art
For a world that's fallen apart.



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Craptology

So much crap in every spot,
Crap fights Reason—quite a plot.
Though all that crap is worth no lot,
Cheaply to the Bottom—shot.



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



The Damn Tautology

Too much rubbish, far too much;
Rubbish wins with every touch.
Though it's worthless, cheap and vain,
Downward still we ride the train.



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Crap Logic

Crap on crap and more crap still,
Crap attacks the thinking will.
Worthless junk, yet here we go—
Straight and cheaply to the low.



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Cops

"— The boy won't say a word."
"— Maybe he hates the police?"
"— Maybe he's two years old!"
— Monk


The defective detective's wit
Makes the comedy a hit.
But a cop who's sold his soul?
Run—before he takes control!




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The Policeman

The "defective" detective's case
Brings a smile to every face.
But a crooked cop for real?
Run at once—and run with zeal!



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Reality Check

The comic detective earns a laugh,
His flaws become the show's good half.
A bought-off cop in real-life play?
Don't stand there—just run away!



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Down the Drain

"Fate plays with man, and man plays the trumpet."
— Ilya Ilf & Yevgeny Petrov, The Little Golden Calf (1931)


Fate plays its games with mortal men,
While he keeps blowing tunes again.
A gaping hole consumes his mind,
And something precious falls behind.

His soul evaporates away,
Refusing ugliness its sway.
Yet if against the Dark you cease
To struggle, strive, and hold your peace,

Then all your years, your hopes, your pain,
Will vanish swiftly down the drain.
For once the fight is cast aside,
The living soul has already died.



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A Losing Tune

Fate plays with man, and he, once more,
Keeps playing trumpet as before.
A giant gap consumes his head,
While through the boor his soul has fled.

He calls corruption "destiny,"
And bows before deformity.
But if you quit the fight with Night,
Your life goes down the pipe outright.



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The Trumpet

Fate plays the man; the man plays brass,
While years and chances swiftly pass.
Stop fighting Darkness—give it reign,
And life goes whistling down the drain.



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



Evolution

A monkey mother, grim and sly,
Teaches her son how well to lie,
So he may grow, with steady art,
Into a fool with broken heart.

From that point on, decay begins—
The fool grows deep in webs and sins.
Without a whip, he walks the road
To Hell, where servitude’s bestowed.

Now Darkness calls it “work” instead—
CowID has clearly said.
He turns to idiot, smooth and whole,
With lies that fill his every role.

Thus Evil wins its guarantee;
A document, for all to see:
The Monkey Charter, duly signed—
“You are excrement by design.”

And only such refuse and waste
Can swallow doctrine, foul and baste.
While cops guard mist and blurred decree,
And guard the fog of blasphemy.

Mist breeds dread, and dread breeds more—
The former’s child, the latter’s core.
From ape-like roots this cycle came,
A cave-age mind, still much the same.



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EVOLUTION (Manifest)

Monkey mother, soft and sly,
Teaches son the art of lie.
Grow him down to stupid form—
That’s the standard, that’s the norm.

From that point the rot begins,
Fool evolves in layers of sins.
No whip needed—he will crawl
Straight to Hell and serve it all.

Darkness calls it “work” and “sense”—
CowID signed the evidence.
Idiot made clean and whole,
Lies become his only role.

Evil wins its legal frame:
Charter signed in monkey name—
“You are waste,” the verdict reads,
Printed for the lower breeds.

Only waste can swallow lies,
Only sludge believes and dies.
Cops guard fog and drifting grime,
Mist becomes the law of time.

Mist gives birth to deeper dread,
Cycle feeding what is fed.
Ape-line legacy remains—
Cave-age mind in modern chains.



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No Way Out?!

"Into the rush of cities, into streams of cars
We return again—THERE’S SIMPLY NO WAY OUT.
And we descend from conquered, distant stars,
Leaving our hearts in mountains left about."
— Vladimir Vysotsky, Farewell to the Mountains (1966)


No way out? Then build the kind,
Communities that keep the mind.
Best defense against the lie—
To stay yourself and not comply.

The world is sinking into war,
CowID and fascist roar.
Dragged down to the very base,
Masks and muzzles in our face.

So what now—have we reached the end?
No scale remains, no way to mend?
Darkness rules with iron hand,
Turning souls to slave and sand.

You seek escape? Then look inside—
There truth and freedom still reside.
Refuse to kneel, refuse the shame,
Or Hell becomes your only name.

Most have fallen into sleep,
Thick in ignorance, deep.
But if you stand and break the chain,
Fascism itself will fail in vain.

Truth and common bonds will strike
Like flails against the dark alike.
Not flight—but unity and sight
Can turn the void back into light.



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Crooked Little World

A crooked leg alone is small—
No problem, nothing much at all.
You’re still asleep, still dreaming blind,
While crooked bodies fill mankind.

Crooked hands and crooked stride,
Crooked minds and souls inside—
When all around you twist and bend,
That’s where the nightmare starts to end.

Or maybe not—it's worse than sleep,
It’s bottomless, a darker deep.
If even kindness has no name,
The world becomes a twisted game.

And if the crooked one is bare
Of soul, and crawls like centipede there,
It forms a force you cannot see—
That drags the fools toward misery.

This force is silent, cold, infernal,
Invisible, yet wholly terminal.
And in a world so bent and torn,
It grows wherever fear is born.

With lies, with panic, with control—
CowID, then war takes toll.
And crooked years are yet to come,
Where mind and spirit both grow numb.



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CROOKED WORLD (Manifest)

Crooked leg? — still not the end.
But the dream begins to bend.

Crooked hands and crooked face,
Crooked minds in every place.

When the crooked fills the air,
Nightmare lives everywhere.

Not just sleep—this deeper hole,
Where distortion eats the whole.

If the crooked loses soul,
Crawls like centipede in coal,
It becomes an unseen force—
Turning fools from every course.

Cold, invisible, it grows,
Where the fear and panic flows.

CowID, war, and lie—
All the crooked multiply.

Years ahead will twist and grind,
Breaking spirit, breaking mind.

Crooked world, now face the name—
You are bending into flame.



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“Equality” and Tolerasty

A drop of tar within the honey—
Old-fashioned nonsense, crude and funny.
Now everything is mixed the same:
The ugly, stupid, all in frame.

“Equality—end of story!”
That’s the modern global glory.
But here’s the trick they never say:
Even honey turned to clay.

The world’s a madhouse, neat and mild,
Hypnotized and gently styled.
While those with mind—not bovine grade—
Are “wrong” if they refuse the trade.

Tolerance now levels all,
Flattens towers, makes them fall.
Every edge and every flame
Dragged down into the same old game.

And all the gifted, sharp, and bright
Are pushed to exile or to night.
A world of amoebas, calm and bland,
Where difference can no longer stand.



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Equality of Mud

A drop of tar inside the sweet—
Now everything is forced to meet.
Not up—but down, the rule is clear:
All equal only when they’re near.

The sharp, the bright, the ones who see—
Declared “incorrect” to be.
Tolerance, the leveling knife,
Smooths the edge out of life.



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Moderators and the Rest…

The censor now is “mod-erator,”
The journalist — a provocator.
And he who swallows lies is sealed
A “citizen,” Hell’s strongest shield.



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Mods and the Rest

Censor called a “moderator,”
Journalist: a provocator.
One who eats the lie is made
Citizen of Hell’s brigade.



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F;hrer, Machine Gun, and the Obedient Crowd

A machine gun is no threat
If the F;hrer does not set
Fools in motion once again—
Dead dictator, new domain.

“Democracy” — a painted screen,
Hiding what the depths convene.
Tanks are built, and then behold—
F;hrer rises, same old mold.

And the tale begins anew,
Round and round the same old queue—
Till the thinking few remain
At least a tenth amid the pain.

Bright minds anger, more than war,
All the servants of the core
Wage their battle tooth and nail—
Hard to stand when worlds derail.

Mass stupidity expands
Through the ages, through the lands—
A hundred-year-long endless fight,
And we’ve arrived at darkest night.

Virus times revealed the game,
Mud and poison, all the same.
Mind destruction spread like breath—
Feels like we’re the last before death.

A global cataclysm near
To erase the fascist gear—
Rulers, slaves, and tools alike,
“Reset” by fractional strike.

If the Spirit drops to zero,
No more bullets play the hero.
Slow erase, and then re-seed—
Let new growth replace the weed.

No more chaos, no more Hell—
Yet for now, the fools still dwell.
Children of deception’s hand,
Beneath the Devil’s ruling brand.



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F;hrer Cycle

No gun is needed when the crowd
Is led by one who shouts out loud.
F;hrer falls—another takes,
Same old loop that never breaks.

Democracy’s a painted lie,
Hiding tanks that multiply.
Fools still kneel, the cycle turns—
While the thinking world still burns.

Mind decay through ages long,
War disguised as right and wrong.
When the Spirit hits its end,
Only reset can defend.



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The Value of Overeffort on the Spiritual Path

Too much effort—even right—
Often breaks the inner flight.
The student, far from neat and mild,
So often pushes, wild and riled—

Builds up strength, then lets it go,
In one last surge, a final throw.
If he is subtle, he will learn
To let the teachings slowly burn—

Not crush himself, not force the way,
But grow into it day by day.



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Overeffort

Even truth can break the frame
If you push it all the same.
Gather strength—but do not tear;
Growth is measured, light, and rare.



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



The Mountain and Muhammad

The mountain, thinking, moved ahead
To Muhammad’s path and said:
“Bad news from lands below the peak—
The lowlands, mad and fragile-weak,

Will soon be drowned in waves of lies.
Honor, conscience slowly dies.
Spirit, reason, all grow dry—
Like desert winds that scorch the sky.

It won’t occur in one swift blow,
But slowly, step by step, will go.
So keep on pouring tales anew
Of what was old, but never true.

On soil of folly let them spread—
It yields a crop of plenty, said.
Yet all that wealth, that harvest bright,
Is worth no more than dust at night.”



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



The Mountain Speaks

The mountain came with warning word:
Below, the minds are bent and blurred.
Truth dries out like desert air,
And reason slowly dies down there.

So tell new myths of what was past—
On foolish soil they grow amassed.
But all that wealth, that shining gain,
Is nothing but illusion’s stain.



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Spiritual Experience and Projections of Mind

Projections of the mind
Are sold as truths mankind.
But psyche, bruised and blind,
Mistakes the lie for kind.

When spiritual experience is framed
In words, it gets misnamed.
What’s truly personally gained
Is the only rope that keeps you chained

To something real—beyond the noise,
Where language slowly loses voice.
Return—and mind will once again
Dress truth in masks of false refrain.

The subtlest inner states, beware,
Are found in works of those who dare
To say: the road is not success,
But struggle, loss, and deep distress.

Take words of “seers” too literal,
And you will fall with those in thrall.
Trust leads you, step by step, to blend
With crowds where thinking reaches end.

Seek inward. Will you truly find?
That question haunts the seeking mind.
Real insight rarely comes through speech—
It stays beyond what words can reach.

So keep in mind, with every breath,
To search, to risk, to face what’s left.
For otherwise, in thought and name,
You vanish—nothing but a claim.



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Inner Experience

Mind-projects dressed as “truth” appear,
But feed the psyche’s cage of fear.
Only lived experience burns
The rope that language never earns.

Seek inward—don’t trust what is said;
Most verbal paths are nearly dead.
True insight rarely speaks in words—
It cuts beyond all written swords.

If you stop searching, cease to strive,
You’re not truly “living” but survive.



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My Poems

Few can ever quite convey
Rotten chaos in display.
Sasha Cherny led the way—
Still a model, come what may.



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My Verse

Hardly anyone can show
Rotten mess in words that flow.
Sasha Cherny—what a start,
Still a master in this art.



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The Olympic Principle of Rasshism

The main thing is participation—
We’ll lie down bones in preparation.
We bring them joy through sacrifice,
To creatures wearing human guise.

They only look like men outside—
But serve the Hell that’s deep inside.
And war grows “successful” still,
As it approaches nothing’s will.

The foolish little nameless crowd
Behind a double-mask, allowed
Through TV screens to rot the land—
A chaos ruled by unseen hand.

A system held by fear and lies,
Where truth decays and slowly dies.
Those creatures lie without restraint,
Turning all to dust and taint.

No honor left, no mind, no care—
Just death recorded everywhere.
We write in blood what once was life,
And multiply the growing strife.

They do not want a final win—
But genocide is held within
Their only aim. A darkness deep,
A CowID fear that never sleeps.

The “main event” is just to be
A slave in perfect misery.
Now blood becomes the sacred sign,
And doubles preach from twisted shrine.




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Olympic Principle

Participation is the law—
Lie down, and let them break you raw.
Not victory, but slow decay—
That is the modern ritual play.

No truth, no shame, no inner flame—
Just slaves who even lose their name.
And in the end, the final goal:
To turn “life” into control.



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By the Scruff—Into the Next Lie

Cellophane, “brand Hole,”
Thins out everything.
Only fools keep whole
Thick scruffs suffering.

Built up strong and steady,
So they’re dragged with ease—
Noses toward the media,
Swallowing the lies like these.

And the fool just endures it all—
That creature takes the fall.



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Dragged Into Lies

Cellophane, all torn and thin—
Everything wears out within.
Only fools, thick-skinned and blind,
Are pulled along, obedient mind.

Strengthened necks for easy sway—
Dragged to lies and led away.



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Stop and Down!

“Stop and down?”—down at the floor,
No need for shouting anymore.
Just “left” and “right” will do the trick
For every dull and simple brick.

Call it “care,” and all is smooth—
You can bend them, make them move.
Fools can be well “reformatted,”
For their “health,” they’re gladly carted.

Muzzles on the crowd are placed—
“All for good,” the stupid waste.
“Champion” from a second run
Is ready now for war and fun.

Lie a bit more bold and grand—
And you’ll get what you demand.
Make it cheap, and make it sweet—
Promise pennies as a treat.

Golden mountains in the air,
“Bright tomorrow” everywhere.
Fools believe the creatures’ line—
Always did, and that’s just fine.

Faith is all that slaves require—
So control that one desire.
Scouts and pioneers alike
Follow whoever feeds the strike.

They are turned to idols bright,
Guides that lead from dark to light—
Only to return again
To the same old filthy pen.

“Finish them in their own place”—
Same old tale in modern space.
More absurd the story grows,
Easier the collar goes.

Add new yoke upon the old—
Forward march, or so we’re told.
All is promised, all is sold—
Time to thin the foolish fold.



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Stop and Down

“Stop and down”—the crowd obeys,
Left and right in blinded haze.
Call it care, and call it good—
Shape the herd as only could.

Muzzles on, and lies made sweet,
Promised futures incomplete.
Fools believe—and that is key—
That’s how rule is made to be.



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Problems of the Funeral Trade

The passage into “afterlife”
Is tricky for the slime and strife.
What kind of coffin fits the dead
Who lived like microbes, blindly fed

On lies from creatures, while they ate
The earth in “consumer” state—
Believing TV’s shining stream,
Mistaking dust for living dream?

If a microbe poisons soil,
Burn it down and spare the toil.
Hide the ashes, seal the crate,
Put existence on the plate

Of endless industrial line—
For most are microbes by design.
Fear and greed, obedience bred—
That is how decay is spread.

Rot is everywhere you see,
Ruled by filth and tyranny.
Microbe-colonies remain
Servants chained until the end of pain.

CowID showed the global face:
Not nations—colonies in place.
Screens keep whispering different lies
To turn all beings into flies—

Not just slaves, but microbes small,
No coffin needed after all.
A great “efficiency” is gained
When Earth is fully rearranged.

But those Above can clearly see,
And sense what worse will yet be.
They plan a cleansing, blazing wave—
The Sun will heat what humans gave.

Its effort grows with every day;
And more will come along the way.
For those who let the darkness reign—
Receive the Light as burning pain.



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Funeral Problems

Microbes die and slime decays—
What coffin fits such living haze?
Burn it down and seal the trace,
Life becomes a processing place.

CowID showed the final view:
Not nations left—just colonies too.
And those who ruled through lie and fear
Will meet the Sun they summoned here.



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Themes

“Country”—what else is there to say?
No other themes to fill the day.
Just “love” and “friendship,” worn and thin—
The dull mind circles round within.

All is nonsense, total haze;
A planet-prison holds the days.
No chain is strong enough for lies—
Its hope is fools who close their eyes.

They guard each other, strike, betray,
They push and crush along the way.
But first the school begins the trade—
Where minds are slowly retrofitted and made.

More potent than a weapon’s flame
Is shared stupidity by name.
When fools become a unified sea,
No voice of sense can ever be free.

The few who think can do no more—
The reign of beasts still holds the floor.
A prison-world is ruled by fear,
By those who twist what minds can hear.

Perception itself becomes the wall;
Inside, the ignorant insects crawl.
They swallow lies without a care,
Then pass them on into the air.

And children learn the same old script—
The endless loop, the soul is stripped.
Demons beg for “gifts from God”—
A sickness dressed in pious fraud.

Freedom alone remains the theme;
Without it, life is slave and dream.
A hollow shell, a borrowed name—
Weak in spirit, mind the same.



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Themes

Only “country,” love, and talk—
Round and round the prison walk.
Fools are trained from early years,
Built on lies and fed on fears.

Few can stand against the tide—
In the beast-world none can hide.
Freedom is the only flame,
All else is slavery by name.



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Tongue Twister

A tongue-twister annoys the ear
In a language strange and unclear.
On air, absurdity takes flight—
A stream of nonsense, day and night.

So drop the noise, the hollow spin,
And walk away—just step right in
To silence clean, light as air:
Leave the nonsense lying there.



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Static

Tongue-twists, noise, a foreign sound—
Nonsense flying all around.
Cut it off and drift away,
Leave the clutter, don’t stay.



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Yogurt and Sour Milk

Our “Rasha” is just sour milk,
Curdled lies in rotten silk.
Without deceit it’s not the same—
Everything runs by silent claim

Of unseen beasts behind the wall,
Not Washington that rules it all.
The backstage pulls the world’s own thread,
While milk turns fake and truth lies dead.

Palm oil flows where milk should be,
Fraud is everywhere you see.
Fools applaud what they don’t know,
Clapping for the lie’s own show.

The world is drowning in a stream
Of nonsense, fraud, and broken dream.
Sheep are led with patient hand
Straight toward slaughter’s promised land.

No escape—the fall is wide,
Degradation global tide.
CowID stands as proof displayed—
All that’s real is cast away.

Sour milk begins to spread,
Turning sweet things into dread.
Turning on the ones nearby,
Screaming: “Idiots never lie!”

And from another distant side,
Yogurt flows in cultured pride.
Still the backstage pulls the strings—
Everywhere the same old things.

A world that bows, a cursed design,
Held in lies like tightest twine.



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



Yogurt & Milk

Sour milk, our broken land,
Lies are mixed by unseen hand.
Truth is gone—just scripted play,
Fools applaud and kneel each day.

CowID marks the final stage—
Degradation, turning page.
Yogurt, milk, it’s all the same:
Different labels, same old game.



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



The Deal

Aggressive vulgarity,
And obedient stupidity.
For the sensitive—despair,
Rotting life beyond repair.

Degradation, fear, and lies
Stretching to the edge of skies.
World like an execution block,
Slowly sliding toward the shock.

It destroys what’s best in man:
Fools become the strike-and-span.
Choice has always been so thin:
Either bow to lies within,

Or be crushed without a cause—
Useless struggle, breaking laws.
In this lifeless, heavy mass
Stupidity rules every class.

Muzzles show us who is who
In this fragile world we knew:
Doctor’s just a dull repeat,
While the wise become the meat—

Targets set within the range,
Not the shooter, but the strange
Object of the aimless gun—
Where the fool outshoots the one

Who can think. The pockets fill
For those obedient still.
Aggressive vulgarity
Devours what was meant to be.

In the end, a final crack—
Cataclysm on the track.
Something stops the closing jaws
Of this beast with crooked laws.

Yet until that final turn,
Lies are shuffled, endlessly churned
By the hand that rules the game—
Darkness wearing human name.



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



The Deal

Vulgar force and empty mind,
Leave the better ones behind.
World slides down a sharpened frame—
Lies the only winning game.

Fools now aim and fools now rule,
Truth becomes the hunted tool.
Till the final break arrives,
Chaos feeds on human lives.



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



New Sheep-Virus (Not Human, but Ovine)

A disease that does not exist
Becomes the reason to insist
On killing flocks in steady rows—
In Romania, the slaughter grows.

And soon enough, the mind will fade,
If fools—so weak, yet “properly made”—
Support the infernal plan
That calls itself the “order” of man.

The ruling hand is just a mask,
Behind it hides a darker task.
For centuries, unseen, it steers
The world through puppets, lies, and fears.

Politicians play their part,
While servants mimic fallen art.
They rule by crushing human will,
Yet answer to that hidden skill.

No man could kill a million lives
And still believe his conscience thrives.
But fools accept what power says—
Without belief, the spirit decays.

And so the world becomes pure rot,
A point of no return, forgot.
Truth is badly stitched and torn—
Yet fools consume it, still reborn.

The more they feed on what is false,
The deeper sinks the moral pulse.



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



Sheep-Virus

A virus that is not real
Becomes the reason blood is spilled.
Flocks are killed in silent lines,
While reason slowly undermines.

Power hides, unseen, unknown,
Pulling strings from a hidden throne.
And fools believe—so they decay—
Rot becomes their only way.



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



The Usefulness of Mercury for Small Children

Is mercury truly something bad?
In “vaccines,” it’s widely had—
A “benefit” for growing brains,
To keep them far from higher plains.

A world of minds, not broken wood,
Exists only in imagined good.
But what is real? A pointed call
From hidden hands that steer it all.

Refuse—and you become a stray,
A useless unit cast away.
Falsehood is dressed as moral law,
Called “good” without a hint of flaw.

Soon judgment scales will be applied—
In China, tests are verified.
And reason melts like fading snow,
While “normal” means the fools will grow.

CowID years define the frame—
Idiot becomes the name.
Conscience gone, and honor slain,
Now cattle logic rules the game.

Injected “care” will shape the mind—
Experiments of every kind.
More trials come, the program spreads,
While no one wakes, no warning sheds.

“God is dead,” the thinker said,
And thus the world moves on instead.
So many measures rise from night,
Commanded by a darker light.



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



Mercury Lesson

Mercury in “care” they give,
So fewer minds will truly live.
Reason fades and truth decays—
Cattle logic rules the days.

CowID marks the modern mind,
Blind obedience redefined.
And while no voice cries “Stop the lie,”
More systems rise to justify.



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



“Natural” Sheep-Virus

Not human, but of sheep instead,
The sheep-virus has raised its head.
The bent ones bow, shoulders down,
Enduring fools who wear the crown.

And where’s the hippo-style disease?
More sex for fools—just keep them pleased,
A distraction, loud and fast,
So they won’t see the rot that’s cast—

The filthy madhouse dressed as norm,
Where minds dissolve and break their form.



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



Second Wind

No “second wind” is in the air
Of rhythmic running anywhere.
Only the mind, if kept alive
Where lies don’t let it rot and die,

Can, in the end, break through the gloom—
And strike with sudden, lucid boom—
A flash of insight, sharp and true,
Born from the weight it pushed on through.



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



The Best Way to Hide

"Perhaps beyond the Caucasus’ wall
I’ll hide from all your pashas’ rule,
From their all-seeing gaze that falls,
From ears that hear the faintest call."
— Mikhail Lermontov, 1841


To hide from pashas is quite simple—
Just buy a lunar rover, nimble.
Moon landings? Fake, a staged affair,
Yet fools still swallow what they share.

But better still: obey, believe—
It’s easier then to slip and leave.
No pashas hunt the scattered herd
Of lice-like men who trust each word.



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



Buying and Selling

Maybe it’s all
Just endless trade—
Too much nonsense
The world has made.

So poor, so thin,
So bent, so small—
A broken market
Swallows all.



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



Porridge and Sour Milk in the Head

A brain like porridge, swollen, thick—
At least it hasn’t gone too sick.
To be the crowd is no good fate,
A living proof of dulling state,

Where ignorance becomes the norm,
And stupid minds are proud and warm.
The fools believe: “this mess is ours,”
Their brains like curdled milk in jars.

The product of belief alone—
All from outside, not from their own.
The cave-age never truly ends,
It only shifts and still extends.

It drags on long, it will not cease—
While “reason” is just thought of peace.



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



Flare of Light

Moloch’s flare will burn it down—
Not today, but later on.
The Sun is rising, bright and deep,
And sensitive souls can finally breathe.



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



What to Dedicate to What, or “Beautiful Impulses of the Soul!”

"While we still burn with freedom’s fire,
While honor lives within the chest,
My friend, let us our souls inspire
And dedicate them to the rest!"
— A. Pushkin, "To Chaadayev" (1818)


To dedicate your fire to nation—
A wasted life, a hollow prayer.
It’s lived for ages on the brink,
And now it sits in bottom’s lair.

Today, stupidity in formation
Stands guard upon the lowest ground.
Fools march in ranks of dark delusion—
The deepest pit the world has found.

Stupidity now wars with “NATO,”
While “NATO’s house” is burning near.
For all of this, there comes a payment—
A final clash of death and fear.



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



Defectives

In the chum, the Chukchi senses
Hidden lies and vile offenses.
In the settlement, the fool
Takes his pride in every tool

Of nonsense spewed by foulest tongues,
While “Mraz” is praised by empty lungs.
Savages in Amazonia
Do not forgive deceit or mania.

But in this “Cursed Colony” land,
The loudest liar is called grand.
Who is backward—hard to say:
They even tried, in clumsy way,

To shut the universities down—
For a hundred years, no crown
Of knowledge, just confusion fed
To keep the “educated” misled.

Not wisdom, not a sharper mind,
But filtered data you will find—
Through systems built to dull and tame,
To make the servant think in shame.

Cunning itself is Nature’s flaw—
A short-lived trick against the law
Of deeper consequences born
That leave the future bent and torn.

So many defectives abound,
The world is sinking, lost and drowned.
Today the stink controls the air—
The media rules with foolish prayer.

And all obey as if they stand
Before a wise and guiding hand.
Yet all around is rot and dread,
A world where sense has nearly bled.

Only a few remain still bright,
Too rare to soften all this night.
So I depart to Chukchi lands—
To seek what understanding stands.



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



Impulses and Breakthroughs

"While we still burn with freedom’s fire,
While honor lives within the chest,
My friend, let us our souls inspire
And dedicate them to the best!"
— A. Pushkin, "To Chaadayev" (1818)


Souls and their “beautiful impulses”—
If passion points the wrong-way road,
Then consciousness shows ruptures, pulses,
Blind spots where fools take up the load.

A fool who bows to Evil’s calling,
Accepting nonsense as “the norm,”
Now walks the path of slow enthralling—
A world of lies in perfect form.

So shut the door on foul deception,
Or face the fall you cannot mend.
Strengthen the mind’s inner perception—
The heart’s true voice must be your friend.

For only inward answers matter;
Outside is war in endless guise.
A war to break, to split, to shatter
The soul that fails to recognize

That half of what we call “inspiration”
Is planted by a hollow age.
Only a mind beneath vibration
Of Spirit opens wisdom’s page.

Gather your consciousness in motion—
The outer world fights noise with noise.
It masks its aims in false devotion,
And seeks to dull the inner voice.

To turn you into beast or donkey—
A trained and silent, broken mind.
No nations stand—CowID has shown thee
A world dissolved, redefined.

You may discard what’s built around you
If Light has truly been your guide.
For only Light can sift and ground you,
Expose what darkness tries to hide.

Intuition—quiet fire—
Leads through the storm, through shattered thought.
It pulls the soul ever higher,
To where salvation must be sought.



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



Dream

A punk inside a tank is grinning,
A genius in the State Duma too,
And priests have suddenly been seeking
Some “Light” they never really knew.

The world, once mad beyond all measure,
Rejected all its savage lore—
The nightmare faded into silence,
And reason walked back through the door.

I open my eyes… how reassuring—
The view is calm, serene, and fine:
Genocide and raw oppression…
Ah yes—everything’s just fine.



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



Artificial “Their-Intellect”

The gadget tells us what to do—
Their “intellect” knows just how to.
It’s built to keep the crowd confined,
To dull the body, dull the mind.

To strip away the urge to think,
To push the sharp ones to the brink—
A system made to break and bend
The few who still refuse to end.

And what emerges in the wake?
A digital, controlled state—fake:
A camp built out of code and light
For those who’ve lost their inner sight.