203 poems

Steps Out of Hell

The countless little things you've known
Have shaped your life into a stone.
Layer upon layer pressed tight,
Crushing the Soul and dimming light.

Mind remains, yet weak and worn,
Shriveled, battered, twisted, torn.
Nonsense squeezes day and night,
Fed by media's endless blight.

Fear rings softly like a bell,
Building tension, weaving spell.
In global filth you own a share,
Or are you just a glitch in there?

Inside the camp that spans the earth,
Digitized is human worth.
Fools are glued to life’s decay,
Pride prevents them seeing it today.

On the ruins of pseudo-life,
Some kept Honor through the strife,
Kept their Reason, standing fast
While sticky darkness spread its vast.

Yet the camp obeys the beasts,
Bows before their hollow feasts.
CowID showed the depths below:
Turn all things to sludge and woe.

Burn the sludge, then start once more,
Another grand experiment of yore:
A newer slavery unveiled,
While captive minds grow weak and fail.

Vegetables of thoughtless clay
Turn to waste along the way.
Wretched is this hellish sphere,
Driven by deception, year by year.

To let Hell breed and multiply,
One must swallow every lie.
If you believe, it shall remain,
A machine for harvesting souls in pain.

Soul salvation—alchemy,
The highest field of mastery.
A chance remains, though small indeed,
That we become what Spirits need.

Trust not evil, cease deceit—
That first step lifts you from defeat.
The second? Save your strength no more:
The fight was never fair before.

Superhuman effort, forged in flame,
Will bring the third step all the same.
Then every rotten lie shall fall,
And cunning foes will shake through all.

For everything will stand revealed,
No horror any longer sealed.
The world shall see the whole abyss;
Till then, pride and fear assist.

Introspection helps you tame
The pride and fear that fuel the game.
Intuition multiplies
The strength to fight, not agonize.

This is alchemy’s greatest key,
The twin-winged force that sets minds free.
Dark AIs spread through every land,
To make mankind more weak and bland.

Inhuman rulers, soulless crowds,
And idiot legions, meek and cowed—
That is the board on which we stand,
The battle few can truly command.

Strengthen both your wings and rise,
Confront the darkness, see through lies.
Then through Hell your Soul you'll save;
All else is trivial to the brave.



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The first step out of Hell: reject the lie.
The second: fight though odds are stacked sky-high.
The third: reveal the darkness to the day—
And watch the tyrants tremble and decay.



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Slavery Wasn't Ended — It Went Global

Slavery's unseen, like air all around.
Fish think it's normal to sink to the ground.
Were it confined, not spread over all,
Vice would stand naked, exposed in its thrall.

But when a whole world of fools fills the stage,
The idiot thinks he is wise for his age.
Fish need their water; dull slaves need their lies—
Touch not the "basics" where their habitat lies.



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Slavery vanished? That's simply untrue.
It conquered the planet and hid from the view.
Fish call the water their natural fate;
Fools call their chains "normal" and "great."

Vice would be obvious, stark and severe,
If madness appeared only here and there.
Fish need their water; blind slaves need their lies—
Question the system, and watch panic rise.



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The Last Thousand Poems

The last thousand poems were hard to bring forth,
I'll rest for a while, though not much it is worth.
Then onward I'll go, though my strength isn't strong—
For writing alone is the law I live on.



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The final thousand came at a terrible cost,
A brief pause I'll take before onward I'm tossed.
My strength may be fading, my powers not long,
Yet creation remains my one true law and song.



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A thousand more poems—hard won from the fight.
I'll rest for a moment, then back to the write.
Though strength may run low and the road may seem long,
Creation alone is the law of my song.



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Tales ; Likes

Tales become likes.
Hype quickly spikes.
Bright and new—
All fade from view.



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Stories turn to likes.
Noise and fleeting strikes.
Fresh and bright above—
Soon forgotten, stripped of love.



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Tales become likes.
Novelty dies.
What dazzles today
Tomorrow lies.



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Breeding in Captivity

The breeding trumpets loudly blare,
Calling simpletons everywhere
To paradise of slow decay—
Fooled by the same old tricks again today.

"Breeding under slavery?" Absurd?
Think again and heed this word.
Even beasts, at least some breeds,
Will not multiply in cages' needs.

Once you see, you'll stand a chance
Not to join the hamster dance.
Add offspring to the spinning wheel,
And escape becomes less real.

Faster every year it turns;
Reason fades, the spirit burns.
Mind is broken, soul is scarred,
Evil's handiwork hits hard.

Love is meant for those nearby,
Not for urges rushing by.
Listen to the heart within,
Not the youthful pulse of skin.

Intuition lights the way,
Helping see the wheel at play.
Critical thought cuts through the haze,
Burning falsehoods in its blaze.

Think and act, seek kindred minds—
Those whose reason still survives.
Mushy romance, cooing bliss?
The fool resides on levels like this.



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The cage spins faster every year,
While minds grow weak through doubt and fear.
Trust your heart, but test what's true—
Find the few who still think through.

And if the wheel is all you see,
You'll breed for chains, not liberty.



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Cyclomatic Number of Complete Three-Part Hypergraphs

Such nonsense once I proved with pride,
A theorem built and verified.
Today that thesis brings me shame—
Psychology had called my name.

To Leningrad I went to learn,
The psyche's secrets to discern.
Then army came—universal hell!—
A builder-battalion's fool as well.

That chapter did not last too long;
I slipped away and moved along.
Through Soviet Nothingness I sped,
Past crumbling dreams and dogmas dead.

A mathematician at the start,
Then law became my trade and art.
Not much for speeches, quick to see
How money flowed relentlessly.

I knew some gangsters back in time—
Less harmful than bureaucrats in line.
I saw the system from within,
A genocide machine of sin.

No hero's grave became my fate,
Though trouble knocked upon my gate.
The KGB paid me a call—
I grasped the message, after all.

Continue, and you'll pay the price;
The Zone awaits—take this advice.
So programming became my way,
Making games for fools to play.

At least outside. But deep within,
I searched for truth beneath the din.
One lesson rose above the fog:
Lie to yourself—and you are lost.

A book I wrote, a game I made,
Perhaps the hardest that was played.
Now poems fill my days instead;
In them no lies are forged or bred.

Too many frauds I've come to know,
Too many masks and hollow show.
Their stench has sickened me for years,
So verse becomes my atmosphere.

The world is drowning in its waste;
My poems churn the toxic paste.
They dragged mankind toward the abyss,
And Reason fades in emptiness.

I'll keep on pounding at the floor,
Till Hell itself reveals its core.
Perhaps I'll drown in that dark sea—
Yet truth remains enough for me.

I've seen Hell walking on the Earth;
Its face no longer shocks my nerve.
How vile the bought-and-sold buffoon
Whose mind serves Evil's poisoned tune!

Part of the truth is this: a god
Once ruled these lands now stained and flawed.
Then Satan took the vacant throne;
The world grew mean, corrupt, alone.

And if it's rotten, don't pretend
Your final days will never end.
They're few enough. So write your verse,
And let its poison break the curse.

Pour fire into every line,
Then leave the rest to fate and time.
The Cataclysm's drawing near—
It burns, then cools this spinning sphere.

So let the rotten order fall,
Its mouldy banners, one and all.
The ending bell begins to chime—
Farewell, decay. Your borrowed time.



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I wrote the code. I wrote the law.
I watched the system's hidden jaw.
I saw the lies. I saw the sell.
I've walked through Earth and called it Hell.

Now verse remains—my final trade:
To strike the bottom that they made.
If truth survives one line of mine,
The fight was worth its cost in time.



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Smells

My homeland now is smoke and haze,
A bitter stench through all its ways.
The beasts of media spread their blight,
Poisoning Earth by day and night.

And with them stand the bought-and-sold,
The slimy souls who traded gold
For power. They took every key,
And rule wherever eyes can see.

The honest breathe the scent of need,
While fear keeps fools in check indeed.
A dog can smell a frightened man;
The sharp can spot him at a glance.

The world is spinning out of line,
For willing idiots design
A vast Digital Camp of chains—
The same old madness, newer names.

Construction echoes bygone days:
Like socialism's endless maze.
The thinker is the one cast out;
The fool is crowned without a doubt.

Between the barracks nations race—
The Soviet spirit changed its face.
No countries left, yet still they wait,
Expecting happiness from fate.

Some barracks look more grand and strong;
America may lead the throng.
Yet thicker smoke is still to come,
And louder beats the ruling drum.

For there as well the sickness grew;
The bottom has been broken through.
The whole world slides toward the pit,
While blind believers worship it.

The smell of ruin fills the air,
The sensitive detect it there.
No freedoms seem to still remain
Except in speeches false and vain.

The muzzle showed what few could see:
A world diseased profoundly.
The chasm widens, dark and vast—
A bitter End may come at last.



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The smell of fear. The smell of lies.
The smoke that burns across the skies.
The fools build chains with willing hands,
While rot advances through the lands.

The pit grows wider every day;
The masks have torn and blown away.
The stench of collapse is in the air—
The few awake can feel it there.



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The Soviet System

"Somewhere, somehow, now and then,
There are those who won't behave..."

That vague phrase alone could tell
What the Soviet system was as well.
Hedges, euphemisms, verbal fog—
Mountains built from double-talk.

Day and night propaganda rolled,
Washing minds in molds of old.
Fools served Evil without a clue,
Thinking lies were somehow true.

Like water wearing down a stone,
Falsehood worked the state to bone.
And all that "granite," hard and grim,
Collapsed one day upon a whim.

Not by armies, not by war,
But by lies folk heard before.
The system finally wore them thin—
Its greatest foe was found within.



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"Somewhere, somehow, once in a while..."
That was the Empire's favorite smile.

Every truth was wrapped in haze,
Buried under bureaucratic phrase.
Day and night the engines lied,
While useful fools stood by with pride.

Water cuts through solid rock;
Lies erode a system's block.
The Soviet "flint," so hard and grand,
Fell in a day like crumbling sand.

Not because enemies stormed the gate—
People simply tired of the state.
Too much fiction, far too long:
The lie survived; the structure's gone.



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Weariness Remains

Weariness stays,
The wage of my toil.
Though much I achieved,
Such is a poet's road.



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Only weariness remains,
Payment for my endless strains.
Though I've done no little part,
Such's the pathway of the bard.



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Tiredness remains—
The poet's pay.
Much has been done,
Yet that's the way.



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To the Sucker

To the sucker—life is rough,
Like plankton drifting, weak and tough.
For whales, for scum that rule the seas,
He’s just their easy food to seize.



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To a sucker: it’s all grim,
Like plankton—tiny, crushed, and dim.
For whales and scum that feast and thrive,
He’s what they swallow to survive.



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“Flowers” of Degradation

"Vice in us is stubborn, repentance but disguise;
Eager to repay itself a hundredfold for all,
The soul again with laughter slips along sin’s wall,
Washing its shameful path with coward’s tearful lies."
— Charles Baudelaire, Flowers of Evil

In Hell once communists, in fog and smoke confined,
Tormented broken stumps of men, half-blind.
Now fascists came to take their place in line—
Which is the worst? No rank can still define.

For genocide has never known its scale,
No ruler for the depths where morals fail.
The Reds believed each viral myth they heard—
And now the world absorbs the next absurd.

Like swine into a filthy sty they run,
Where lies replace the light of any sun.
For thinking minds it is a bitter view—
They watch what poisoned seeds of evil grew.

And see the blossoms of that bitter crop—
Degradation’s “flowers” never stop.
Now servile beasts have fallen underground—
Below all measure, crawling on the ground.

The creatures now are building yet again
A new camp rising in the fields of pain.
In False Maria it grows day by day—
A triumph of the Satanic play.

For Satan long has mastered every mask,
And fools accept whatever face they ask.
The idiots wear each new grotesque disguise—
And masks become their chains before their eyes.

They drag them down, these idiots of the herd,
To bottom depths where no clear truth is heard.
“Communist heaven” once was promised land—
Now brainwashing is sharper, cold and grand.

So trust the beasts—they order you to kneel,
Or “air will vanish,” that’s the deal they deal.
Don’t question Overton’s expanding gate—
Accept the shift, before it is too late.

For Overton advances, step by step,
More ruthless than the Congresses we kept.
The honest soul in Hell can only grieve—
It’s hard to stay yourself, or just believe.

No future here that reason can define—
But Cataclysm will redraw the line.
It burns it all—and something else appears.
Farewell, you foolish fascist age of fears.



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Baudelaire and the Root of Evil

Baudelaire sought the root of all sin,
But found only “flowers” within.
If you settle for half the truth’s art,
You’ll be trapped in a counterfeit heart.

In false beauty’s polished disguise
There a darker deception lies.
Many fools are held up as wise—
In schools they are praised, in print they rise.



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Baudelaire searched for evil’s core,
But found “flowers” instead of more.
Choose half-measures, compromise—
And you’ll drown in fake disguise.

False beauty builds its glittered cage,
Where fools are crowned the wisdom’s stage.
Raised in schools as shining light,
Printed praise keeps wrong as right.



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Flour of Boredom, Pain of Life

The boredom-flour of pseudo-living—
They salt the slugs, and call it giving
“Anointing oil,” a sacred sign—
While tightening the cruel design.

And year by year the grip grows tight,
They sell us poison as pure light.
What’s salt on slime they call delight—
And darker grows the endless night.



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The flour of boredom—life’s disguise,
Where slugs are salted, called “arise.”
They name it balm, they name it grace—
But cruelty smiles through every face.

And every year the poison spreads,
While lies are poured on weary heads.
What burns and stings they call “divine”—
And life grows dimmer, line by line.



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The Poet’s Path Today

No support remains—censorship grows,
More brutal, shameless as it goes.
Few real people left in sight—
Just skins that rot from year to night.

Once poems were written and locked away,
Now the internet shows the same decay.
No bards are heard through noise and rot,
No need for verse in a madhouse plot.

War and “CowID” laid it bare—
Only fierce poetry can tear
The mask from fools who bow and kneel
To Evil’s grip, to iron seal.



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No aid remains, but censorship swells,
Each year more viciously it dwells.
Fewer humans—more empty shells,
And moral decay only accelerates.

Once poets wrote and hid their flame,
Now silence spreads under a new name.
No bard survives the noise and fraud,
No verse is needed in a madhouse god.

War and CowID exposed the game—
Only fierce verse can speak its name.
To show how low mankind has gone
Under the yoke where fools belong.



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“Too Much Moralizing,” They’ll Say…

“Too much lecturing,” they’ll sigh—
I write my poems just for I,
For my younger self alone,
No disguise, no polished tone.

No pretense—I cut it clean,
Nerves won’t stand a grand routine.
So I write what burns inside—
Let the rest just pass aside.



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“Too much preaching,” they will say,
As I write my verse today.
But I write it for myself—
For the younger one in stealth.

No pretence, no crafted show,
Nerves are worn too thin to flow.
So I write, and let it be—
Just my voice, uncensored, free.



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A Fool Submissive to Evil

A fool who bows to Evil’s hand,
A madman scribbling verse in sand.
Pour me more vodka—don’t delay,
For everything has gone astray…


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




A fool who bends to Evil’s will,
A madman poet, writing still.
Pour me vodka—let it spill,
Things are going downhill… still.



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World Fantasmagoria

The lunar rover crawls ahead,
A hatch swings open—what’s inside?
A lunatic is there instead,
And glitch itself begins to guide.

Apollo sends a fake descent—
“Greetings, lunatics” from space.
Reason is forced into exile,
While madness takes its rightful place.

The media strain, they overheat,
And birth a dumb “CowID” cheat.
Again the fools believe the lie—
A shameful, stupid lullaby.

They build a Digital Camp anew,
Yet idiots shrug and carry through.
The world is sick in mind and soul,
Its sons have lost all self-control.

Their “Holy Spirit” is the Beast,
Schwab and his circle rule the feast.
The world is sinking to the floor—
And from below, Hell knocks once more.



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The lunar rover crawls the dust,
A hatch opens—glitch and rust.
A lunatic controls the drive—
The system itself is “alive.”

Apollo sends a fake broadcast,
To all lost minds from first to last.
Reason is thrown out of sight,
While madness takes the steering light.

The media strain, they twist and spin,
And birth a “CowID” fraud again.
The fools believe, the lie is sold—
A global script of minds grown cold.

A Digital Camp is built once more,
Yet idiots don’t feel the war.
The world is sick beyond control,
Its sons have lost their human role.

Their “Holy Spirit” wears the mask,
Of Schwab and crew, a cult-like task.
The world is down, the depth is near—
And Hell itself is listening here.



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Sleep and Waking

The dome again refused to part—
And down I fall like stone apart.
The dream is gone. I land inside
A world of lies, soft-rotting pride.

A sticky, vulgar, broken trance—
A thousand madmen’s sickly dance.
Yet lower still you cannot go—
There is no “below” below.

Hell knocks from underneath the floor,
It comes up closer evermore.
Everything sinks in talk and shame—
And nothing ever stays the same.



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The dome won’t open—down I go,
Like falling stone in endless flow.
The dream is gone, I wake to lies—
A sticky world of sick disguise.

A shallow, twisted, mad display,
Where reason slowly drips away.
But lower still? There is no ground—
Just echo where no truth is found.

From underneath, Hell starts to rise,
It taps and whispers, grows in size.
And all dissolves in empty speech—
While truth lies just beyond our reach.



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What Paves the Road to Hell?

“Normal” insanity—
The worst kind of chain.
Add dull stupidity
Of fools without brain—

Three quarters of the crowd,
Or even more than that,
And darkness walks out loud,
Dressed up as “light” and “fact.”

The void is made “the wise,”
And still they trust the game.
Each failure comes as prize—
Yet nothing breaks their frame.

The road to Hell is laid
With phrases, neat and bright,
By every fool betrayed
Who calls the dark “the light.”

“Good intentions” glue the seams,
Bridging every crack of lies.
Trust the shadow, trust your dreams—
And Hell will open wide.



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Ten Verses a Day

Ten verses a day to write—
Feels like sending self to plight,
Like exile, chains, and bitter strain.
Courage? No—just drunken brain.

Poems ferment like cheap home brew,
Thick and sour, nothing new.
Watching trashy films gets old,
Even Death begins to call.

Leave a trace? I couldn’t care.
Still I write—despite despair.
Humoring this foolish urge,
Back into the verse I surge…



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Ten verses daily—what a chore,
Like sentencing yourself to war.
Heroic will? Not quite, not true—
Just drunken verse that brews in you.

Cheap films grow dull, their thrill has fled,
Even Death is near instead.
Leave a mark? I shrug and sigh—
Still I write before I die.



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Hatred for the Idiots of a Broken Little World

(The Overwhelming Majority)

I cannot stand this rotten tide,
This hollow crowd I see inside.
A global grave, a final deal—
Where lies are truth, and fear is real.

If we recall the masked-up year,
The poisoned cures, the drums of fear,
The wars, the slogans, blind command—
They followed all with steady hand.

Just say the word—“attack,” “obey”—
And reason simply fades away.
They’d line up poison on a shelf
And call it “normal” for themselves.

The sun may burn a brighter flame—
They do not see, nor feel, nor name.
No thought, no gaze beyond the feed—
Just endless hunger, urge, and need.



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I drown in rage at this dull mass,
A world that lets all evil pass.
A global grave, a hollow pact—
Where lies are life, and truth is cracked.

The masked-up year, the fear-designed,
The wars that colonize the mind—
They followed all, both blind and tame,
And called obedience by name.

Just give the order—cold and plain—
And they will echo it again.
They’d line the poison up with pride
And call it “order,” justified.

The sun grows stronger, burning high—
They neither see, nor question why.
No thought remains, no inward glance—
Just endless feeding, trance by trance.



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Monologue of the Disgusted Witness

I speak, and the air turns thick with ash.
Not hate—no, something older. Closer to crash.
A world of soft-headed consented decay,
Where reason is voted, then thrown away.

I walk through the chorus of smiling collapse,
Through minds that repeat their own collapse.
They call it “normal,” they call it “free,”
While swallowing chains so eagerly.

The masked year taught them obedience sweet,
The poisoned comfort, the managed defeat.
War followed next with its televised grace—
And still they applauded, still kept their place.

Just whisper a slogan, simple and clean—
And watch how thought disappears between.
They’d sort the poison, label it care,
And never once question the smell in the air.

The sun gets stronger, merciless bright,
Exposing the hollow theater of light.
But they do not look up, do not resist—
They only consume what they’re told exists.

And I—
I stand in this surplus of sleepwalking souls,
Where thinking is punished and absence controls.
Not rage alone keeps this vision alive—
But horror that something like this can survive.



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A Sick and Hard Road

The road is bitter, harsh, and grim,
If you’re not part of the shallow hymn.
For fools are countless, thick as dust—
So go alone, if go you must.

Run by yourself, stay out of sight,
And keep your voice both low and light.
For all around is empty noise—
A world too full of hollow joys.



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The path is harsh, it turns your breath,
If you don’t blend with shallow death.
But fools are many—crowds that drown,
So walk alone and don’t look down.

Go swift, go silent, leave no trace,
Through overfilled and thoughtless space.
For everywhere the dullards thrive—
So stay unseen if you’d survive.



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Beer and Vodka Ruin All

Beer will ruin, vodka too,
And the middle breaks you through.
Born into a cursed terrain,
Still you push through loss and pain.

Chasing after “happiness”
Through a storm of inner mess.
Better scatter clouds instead—
No reward of golden bread.

For the loaf is carved and split
By the beasts who profit it.
Never many, never few—
Always them, and never you.



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Beer destroys, and vodka breaks,
And the middle’s all it takes.
Born where ruin holds the ground,
Still you wander, still unbound.

After hollow “joy” you run
Through the storms that block the sun.
Better chase the clouds away—
No reward will come your way.

For the loaf is theirs to tear,
Handled by the beasts who dare.
Never equal, never free—
Only them, not you and me.



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“It Seems…”

Don’t rush to cross yourself in fright
When “it seems” appears in sight.
Maybe light is breaking through,
Trying to make all things new—
Bringing clarity to you.

Subtle realms of spirit’s thread
Have been slandered, falsely said.
“All seems,” “maybe,” “not quite so”—
There the lostened minds will go.



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When “it seems” begins to rise,
Don’t dismiss it—open eyes.
Maybe light is breaking through,
Growing sharp in clearer view.

Subtle realms of inner flame
Have been dragged through doubt and shame.
“All seems so,” and “maybe, then”—
There the mind gets lost again.



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Saccharine Poetry

“Some spray their verses from a can,
Some spit them out the best they can—
Mitreiki, Kudreiki, curly show—
Who the hell can tell them so?”
— Vladimir Mayakovsky, Full Voice


To act as if all’s fine and well
Is what the foolish poets sell.
A world corrupt, infernal, blind—
Where fear and nonsense rule the mind.

Erasing ugliness from sight
Has always been the shallow rite.
But nobility is not
To herd the flock into one plot—

It is to show, with cutting light,
What rots beneath the painted bright.
So waste no words on empty spin
In this great global madhouse din.

There are more urgent things to tell—
The path that leads out of this hell.
But fools stay mute in matters deep,
While nonsense makes the donkeys sleep.

They sweeten lies with syruped breath,
And call it “truth” inside its death.
Kudreiki types with staffs in hand
Guide cattle through a ruined land.

The shepherds here are beasts of Hell,
Who train the herd to think all’s well.
Their poets—useful fools, as planned—
Help stupefy the sleeping land.

And every year the syrup thickens,
The dullness grows, the blindness quickens.
The readers sink in deeper trance—
While fools and cattle never glance.




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They spray their verse like poisoned rain,
Or spit it out with dull refrain—
Mitreiki, Kudreiki in a row—
Who the hell can even know?

Pretend that all is fine and clean—
That’s what the shallow poets mean.
But world is rotten, fear-designed,
A circus built to break the mind.

To hide the ugly from the eye
Is just another polished lie.
True worth is not to calm the herd,
But show them what is never heard.

So waste no breath on hollow themes
Inside this madhouse built on dreams.
There are more vital paths ahead—
But fools stay silent, mostly dead.

They drip out syrup, thick and sweet,
And call the poison pure and neat.
With staff in hand, the Kudreiki guide
The blinded cattle, bone-dry-eyed.

The Hellish shepherds hold the rope,
And sell decay as trust and hope.
Their poets help the herd decay—
A lullaby of slow dismay.

And year by year the glaze grows dense,
The fools sink deeper into trance.
At maximum of rot and noise—
Both cattle rule, and lack of choice.



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“Miracle” for the Mob

Offer the mob its “miracle” bright,
Rule through deception, endless night.
Through priests and sermons dull the mind,
With promises of heaven kind.

With false science, cold and sleek,
Prop up the half-heaven they seek—
An earthly “paradise” in chains,
A Hell disguised as fleeting gains.

For real Hell is not below—
It’s everywhere they fail to know.
Above, beneath, on every side—
No place where Truth can safely hide.

And who will riot in that space?
A blinded, trembling, faceless mass—
The “people,” so they call the crowd,
Kept docile, fearful, quiet, bowed.

Beyond return, the line is crossed—
A chessboard game where all is lost.
Check delivered, final play—
The world now waits for mate’s decay.



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




Give the mob its “miracle” show,
Rule through lies and let them go
Through priests and promises of light—
To numb their minds and blur their sight.

With pseudo-science, cold disguise,
Build a “heaven” made of lies—
A half-built Hell that they believe,
A world too blind itself to leave.

For true Hell hides in every place,
Above, below, the human race.
No corner left where truth can stay—
It rules by night as well as day.

And who would riot in that field?
A frightened crowd that’s been congealed.
The “people”—name without a face—
Trained to obey and know their place.

Past point of no return we stand—
A chessboard burning out of hand.
One final move, the check is cast—
And silence comes… the die is cast.



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



False Gurus, False Light

Asahara spreads his gas of fear,
Osho poisons minds that hear.
“Spirituality” as a plague—
A leprous mist, a lying stage.

It eats the soul, it cracks the mind,
Leaves shattered reason far behind.
Where “higher truth” is sold as guise,
Only ruin grows and multiplies.



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




Asahara breathes his toxic air,
Osho feeds the crowd despair.
False “awakening,” thin and pale—
A leprosy behind the veil.

It breaks the mind, it stains the soul,
And leaves no thought that stays whole.
Where pseudo-light is preached as grace,
Decay is written in its place.



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



False Religions, or Ideologies of Slaves

“Lord, have mercy”—so they pray,
As the slave has gone astray.
Light’s own forces turn away
From such souls that break and fray.

Mind grows weak, and spirit hides,
Down where fear in silence resides.
Scum has crafted, cold and sly,
Faith to make the donkey sigh.

They have waved a “heaven” near—
“Eternal” fog of hope and fear.
“Submit,” they whisper, “we all know—
You are guilty, born below.”

They are raised in this belief—
“Original sin,” endless grief.
Countless myths in dark array,
Serving power’s long decay.

“Lord, have mercy,” once again—
Slave of Satan, bowed by pain.
Strip away the hidden mines,
And the crude deception dies.



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



“Lord have mercy,” so they plead—
For the slave has failed indeed.
Light withdraws from such a stain,
Leaving darkness to remain.

Mind collapses, soul takes flight,
Down into conditioned fright.
Scum has forged a faith for fools,
Built on unseen iron rules.

They dangle heaven, pale and fake—
“Eternal bliss” for control’s sake.
“Submit,” they say, “you already know—
Guilt is where the weak ones go.”

Raised inside this scripted shame,
“Original sin” is the name.
Countless lies in sacred tone
Serve the throne that stands alone.

“Lord, have mercy,” echoes still—
Slave to darkness, bound to will.
Yet once lies are stripped away,
Even night begins to fray.



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



“Like Faith”

Spirit says: not to know—but to believe,
Even if it’s lies you receive.
Open wide the door to night—
Let Evil feast on inner light.

But there is a method: inward sight—
Not belief, but knowing right.
Faith, when endlessly repeated,
Turns the mind into defeated.

If you echo falsehood long,
Soon you’ll think delusion’s strong.
Many wander, dull and numb,
Almost beasts of mindless drum.

They don’t hide it—flock and herd.
Shepherd speaks the guiding word.
Faith becomes the chain and rod—
Vengeance of the masked-up fraud.

Vengeance for the soul you bear—
For you still are something there.
While the empty, hollow shell
Rules as “master,” king of hell.

Now the fraud wears many masks:
Clownish rulers, empty tasks.
Sheep will “choose” in due disguise
Rotten names that feed the lies.

Return back to source within—
There is where all truths begin.
They will lie with bitter art—
Do not lie to your own heart.

It is simple, if you see—
If you break from slavery.
Faith becomes a scab and stain
On the mind and soul again.



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




Spirit says: not “know,” but “trust”—
Even if it turns to dust.
Open wide the gate of night—
Let deception kill the light.

But there is a deeper way:
Inner knowing, clear as day.
Faith repeated, blind and long,
Turns the mind to something wrong.

If you echo lie on lie,
Soon the truth will pass you by.
Many walk in dull disguise,
Almost animals in guise.

They don’t hide it—sheep are near,
Led by voices full of fear.
Faith becomes a chain and brand,
Forged by something cold and planned.

For they hate the soul you hold,
That you are not bought or sold.
Empty shells in power stand—
“Kings” that rot the fallen land.

Now they shift their masks each day,
Clowns that rule and fools that pray.
Crowds will choose what they are told—
Voting lies that they are sold.

Go back inward—there is truth,
Hidden deep in living root.
Do not lie to what you are—
That alone will take you far.

Simple: break from blindness’ spell,
Do not trust the voice of Hell.
Faith is just a crusted stain
On the mind and soul again.



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



Meaninglessness (Demon of Sense)

When life’s meaning starts to fade,
Don’t search for another made.
Leave the crowd, dissolve the chain—
Be yourself beyond the plain.

For beyond all meanings’ frame
Lives the Spirit—still the same.
Life like a frozen bugged-out stream,
Virus-born inside the scheme.

You are almost code and line,
While the many serve decline.
No grand drama—step aside
From the Donkey’s beaten ride.

Donkey-path is trust in night,
Submission dressed as “holy light.”
Servants counted, marked and keyed—
Number of the Beast’s own breed.

Six-six-six? A shallow jest—
Misread sign and foolish guess.
Six is just a hollow trace,
Lost in meaning, void of place.

Now they build a global frame,
Digital in all its name.
“Two zeros” mark the system core—
A third glitch cycles evermore.

The loop is closed, the reset done—
Mass reduced to zero one.
If you cling to meaning’s crust—
You return to dust and rust.

But light above all meaning lies—
A world where numbers lose their guise.
There all symbols fall apart,
And Pure Spirit rules the heart.



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




When meaning fades and starts to break,
Don’t chase another one to take.
Leave the crowd, dissolve the chain—
Be yourself beyond the name.

For higher than all sense and thought
Lives the Spirit, unbegot.
Life like a frozen system dies—
A virus crawling through the lies.

You are almost coded line,
While most to darker systems sign.
No grand drama—step aside
From donkey roads of blinded pride.

Donkey-path is trust in night,
Obedience to hollow light.
Marked as numbers, cold and still—
Beasts of code and broken will.

Six-six-six? A shallow claim,
Twisted meaning, hollow name.
Six is just a fading trace,
Lost in numbers, void of place.

Now they build the digital shell,
Where broken signals rise and swell.
“Two zeros” hum the system’s core—
A glitch repeats forevermore.

The loop is sealed, the world reset—
Mass reduced to numbers set.
If you cling to meaning’s dust—
You dissolve, as all things must.

But higher light beyond all schemes
Breaks the prison of machine-dreams.
There all numbers fall away—
And Pure Spirit holds its sway.



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



The So-Called Elite

A guilty muzzle hides in ash,
But soot has fused into the mask.
A creature, once a petty wretch,
Now suits himself in polished dress.

He grabs a stack of stolen gain,
And buys his way into the game.
Now “elite” is what they call
This hollow clown admired by all.

The white seams show beneath the stitch—
A uniform that doesn’t fit.
A badly cut and crooked guise
Dressed up to fool unseeing eyes.

The servants of the ruling flame—
Police and soldiers, all the same—
Small-time ghouls in uniform,
Keeping order in the storm.

And those who feed the crowd with lies—
The generals of grand disguise.
Better lie through every screen,
Make the fake appear serene.

For here is Hell in modern form—
Where enemies become the norm.
And idols built on rotten ground
Are worshipped while the world spins round.



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




A guilty muzzle hides in soot,
But filth has grown into the suit.
A petty fraud, a crawling thing,
Now dresses like a “powerful king.”

He steals enough, then buys his place,
And joins the so-called “upper race.”
Now idolized, he stands on stage—
A joke enthroned in modern age.

The white threads show through every seam,
A costume built on broken dream.
A uniform, ill-cut and thin,
Can’t hide the rot that lies within.

The servants of the darkened throne—
Police and soldiers, cold as stone.
Small demons keeping order still,
Obeying higher forms of will.

And those who forge the public lie—
The generals of the endless lie.
Better broadcast through the screen,
Make deception smooth and clean.

For Hell is here, and fully grown—
Where enemies are not yet known.
And idols made of hollow dust
Are worshipped still… because they must.



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



Cruiser Aurora and the Soviet Flag

“What are you dreaming of, Cruiser Aurora…”
— from a Soviet-era song


The cruiser dreams of naval fire,
Of battles raging, dark and dire.
But nightmares come in sharper shape—
The “builders of the perfect state.”

They built a heaven, made a cage,
A bleeding emblem on the page.
A sickle cutting through the soul,
While blood-stained banners take their toll.

A sea of force, a hammer’s blow—
That’s propaganda’s perfect show.
Be loyal? No—then comes the cost:
Asylum, prison, exile lost.

On surface—smiles, polite and kind,
But underneath, a darker mind.
A polished mask of gentle tone
Hides iron rule on human bone.



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




The cruiser dreams of ocean war,
Of cannon fire, shock, and roar.
But worse than battle’s brutal flame—
The “builders of the perfect name.”

They built a heaven, raised a cage,
And signed it with a bleeding page.
A sickle’s grin, a crimson stain,
A flag soaked through with human pain.

A hammer cracks the mind in two—
That’s propaganda’s perfect view.
Refuse the flag, refuse the line—
And prison waits as “lawful sign.”

On surface all is calm and sweet,
A smiling mask, a polished deceit.
But underneath the structure bends—
And soft disguise as fascist ends.



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



Silent Schemes

Schemes are silent, schemes are blind,
Empty memes that shape the mind.
Further on—obedient slaves,
Ready for the beds it gave.

Procrustean, cold and tight—
“Fit the frame,” and kill the light.
Oh my God, what worlds we weave
When minds are trained just to believe.



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




Schemes are silent, dull, and numb,
From memes to slaves, the training comes.
Prepared in rows, they lie in place
On Procrustes’ bed of forced embrace.

No thought survives, no voice remains—
Just fitting bodies into chains.
Oh God, what perfect systems grow
Where minds forget what they should know.



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



Sorting the Parasites

A worm inside? That’s nothing much.
But lies in mind, with fear to touch—
They gnaw the body, soul, and brain,
Like piranhas tearing pain.



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




A parasite within the gut—
That’s minor, hardly worth a thought.
But lies that nest inside the mind,
With fear entwined, with fear combined—

They chew the body, soul, and core,
Like piranhas seeking more.
Slowly they consume it all—
Till nothing human stands at all.



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



Sorting the Mental Parasites

Sorting parasites of mind
Is the task the world will find.
If awareness is erased—
More of them will take their place.

Make the list, assess the cost,
See what parts of reason’s lost.
For worse than any plague or curse
Is worshipping what makes you worse.



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




Sorting parasites of thought
Is the work that now is taught.
If the mind is half destroyed,
More will fill the growing void.

Draw your list and clearly weigh
What your damaged mind must pay.
Worse than leprosy or pain
Is bowing down to filth and stain.



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



Don’t Dance to alien pipe

Don’t dance to someone else’s tune—
Don’t start from the stove, don’t swoon.
Better yet—don’t dance at all,
Or you’ll break your soul and fall.

Schemes will twist and warp your mind,
Nothing worse the soul can find.
The world is drowning in this mess—
In noise, confusion, emptiness.

Only listen to the soul inside—
For they will dull you, break your stride.



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




Don’t dance to a alien tune,
Don’t begin from hearth or room.
Don’t you dance at all, beware—
Schemes will tear your soul laid bare.

Nothing worse for inner sight
Than the world’s confused delight.
Only listen, sharp and true,
To the voice that lives in you.



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



Cheap Metaphors

Cheap metaphors are made
For sugar-sweet parade
Of empty, sugary verse—
Where poets only rehearse.

Harsh reality outside
Never touches their sweet ride.
They are sealed in worlds of glaze,
Sticky dreams and syrup haze.

Too late for them to wake or see—
They drift in dull lethargy.



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




Cheap metaphors, soft and sweet,
For sugar-verse that loves deceit.
Harsh reality remains
Unfelt through syrup-coated brains.

Their little worlds are made of glue,
Of fantasy, not something true.
Too late for them to break the spell—
They sleep too deep to hear the bell.



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



Docile Poetry

Docile poetry—soft decay,
Lyric nonsense on display.
Magnesium for hollow minds?
Too dull a hunt for wasting time.



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




Docile verse, a muted strain,
Lyrical trash inside the brain.
Magnesia for minds gone slack?
Too much trouble to look back.



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



Slaughter

It fires in bursts, like machine-gun rain,
The toxic lie, the spreading stain.
And those who serve it, blind and numb,
Stand like zombies—one by one.

Before the fool, the final scene—
A world corrupted, harsh, unseen.



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




It fires in bursts like a loaded gun,
This toxic lie that numbs each one.
And he who serves it, blank and still,
Becomes a puppet to its will.

A zombie stance, a hollow frame—
Before the fool, the final game.



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



Ten Dollars for a Poem

Ten dollars paid for every line—
And I’d be rich, and life would shine.
Sleep is gone. So what is left?
Just dull decay among the wretched.



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




Ten dollars for a single rhyme—
And I’d be rich in no time.
Sleep has left me, drifted away—
Only fools around me stay.



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



“Montana” Jeans

An old Soviet joke:

They show a young recruit around
the factory where he’ll be bound.

“This is your workshop.”
— “What a hellish shop…”

“This is your working place.”
— “Christ, what a disgrace…”

“This is the canteen here.”
— “Same damn thing I fear…”

“And do you know another word?”
— “Montana,” the answer they heard.

“And what does that mean?”
— “It means the same obscene.”


“Montana” creeps in young and fast,
looks almost normal at the start.
But closer in, the spell is cast—
and everything falls all apart.

When “Montana” fills the mind’s own space,
it quietly reveals its face:
what seemed like order, calm, and plan—
was chaos from the very span.



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




They showed the place where he would stay:
“This is your shop.”
— “A cursed display.”

“This is your desk, your working zone.”
— “What hell is this? A broken home?”

“This is the canteen.”
— “Same old mess…”

“Do you know words beyond distress?”
— “Montana,” came the final line.
“And what is that?”
— “The same decline.”


“Montana” slips into the mind,
at first seems harmless, well-designed.
But soon it shows its true decay—
and everything just rots away.

When “Montana” takes the inner stage,
it closes in like rusted cage.
What looked like normal, fine, and clean—
was always chaos underneath the scene.



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



Fed Up With the Crowd

Fed up with the dull, blind mass,
So many fools—it makes me gasp.



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




Fed up with the thoughtless throng,
Too many fools—it feels so wrong.



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



Idiots!

Idiots! To work you go,
To “treatment,” to war below!
Not mere scum who rule your fate—
But hidden inhuman state.
All the way down—to the floor,
Down to the bottom evermore!



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




Idiots! To work, to grind,
To “healing” schemes that blur the mind!
To war you go, with eyes shut tight—
Led by something out of sight.

Not just villains rule your day—
But something human cast away.
All the way down, no turning free—
Straight to the depths of misery!



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



Maybe It’s Time to Wake

Maybe it’s time to calm your pride,
To drop the swagger you hold inside,
And start again from point of truth—
A fool in a barrel of wasted youth.

A slave-world dull, conditioned, tight,
That cannot bear too pure a light—
If it appears without a shade,
It’s quickly feared, distorted, made.

And so it runs through every age—
The same old script, the same old stage.



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




Maybe it’s time to come around,
To drop the pride that drags you down,
And start again from bitter truth—
A fool in refuse, lost in youth.

A slave-built world, both blind and grey,
That drives all clarity away.
It hates all light that casts no shade—
And so the cycle is replayed.



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



Icons of Satan

For the fool, there is no reason
To erase the darkened code—
It would shatter his own season,
Break the shell he calls his road.

Born a product of the system,
From its seed he draws his breath.
“Icons of Satan” is the wisdom
Names for those who walk with death.

Yet still he strives, in blind illusion,
To be counted with the “sons”—
Lost inside his own confusion,
While the pattern still runs on.




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




For the fool, there is no turning,
From the system he’s been learning.
To destroy it would undo
All the lies that shaped him too.

Born from evil’s hidden seed,
Carrying out the programmed creed.
“Icons of Satan”—that’s the name
For those who play the given game.

Yet still he climbs, in twisted pride,
To stand with those on “higher” side.
But all his striving leads in vain—
Back into the same old chain.



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



Artificial “Intellect” for Servicing the Herd

“Intellect” for system care—
For the ones who wander there:
Narrowed mind and narrowed soul,
Rushing to the digital hole.

For real thought, still unconfined,
Could resist the scripted mind.
So stupidity expands—
Not AI, but “Aye-Aye” hands.

A broken slave, half-dead, half-blind,
The perfect type they seek to find.
A coming wave of silicon dread—
A quiet system built on lead.

Yet fools embrace it with delight,
This “AI” that feels like light.
They’ve forgotten all the signs
Of occupation in their minds.




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




“Intellect” for system use—
For the minds that self-abuse.
Narrow souls and broken will,
Running where the grids instill.

For real thought could still resist
The masters pulling every twist.
So they multiply the dumb—
Not AI, but “Aye-Aye,” numb.

Broken slaves, half-dead, half-blind,
Are the perfect type designed.
Silicon begins to rise—
A quiet doom behind the skies.

Yet fools now cheer it, wide and fast,
Forgetting lessons from the past:
That every “gift” may hide a chain—
Occupation born again.



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



Low Wages, High Disorder

Low wages for the law and force,
While chaos runs its planned course.
So wrongdoers find their way—
And decent ones are pushed away.

It’s not a glitch, not accident,
But something carefully intent.
And films then teach the hollow mind
That blindness is the human kind.

They drill the brain to empty space,
To call corruption “saving grace.”
With guns and noise and staged delight,
They sell us dark as if it’s light.

But films can lie—don’t take the role,
They never show the damaged whole.




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




Low wages given to the force,
So chaos runs its natural course.
The honest man is out of play—
As always, pushed and swept away.

Not chance, but system’s careful hand
That keeps control across the land.
And films teach minds, both dull and young,
To swallow lies that should be shunned.

They drill the brain to hollow shell,
And call the damage “doing well.”
With guns and noise and staged design,
They blur the line between the sign.

But films, remember, twist and bend—
Their truth is never at the end.



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



The Golden Key

You won’t find that golden key,
Cheap and vulgar fantasy.
Go inside instead—go deep,
Be yourself, no mask to keep.

For within is true wealth stored,
Outside—dust and lies ignored.
From your youth, alas, you’ve sought
Substitutes for what you’re taught.

Cunning replaces clarity,
Truth dissolves in vanity.
Painted layers multiply—
While reality runs dry.

With your conscience set aside,
Money will not come in tide.
So you fake and play along,
Even lie to right and wrong.

Soon you’ll lose all sense of pride,
What is honest deep inside.
“Successful” you’ll appear to be—
World of masks and mimicry.

Crush the youthful spark inside—
“Live in comfort,” they decide.
But beneath that promised “light”
You become half-beast at night.

There is a fragile line you cross:
Once you pass it, all is lost.
No return and no rewind—
You are what the system finds.

Predator for weaker will,
Scum to those you bend and drill.
What has caused this inner fall?
Loss of Spirit—that is all.

So while youth is still your own,
Make your choice before you’re gone:
Leave the swamp of empty pride—
Rise like mountains, deep inside.



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




You won’t find the golden key,
That cheap and fake prosperity.
Go within instead—be true,
Let your inner self break through.

For true riches dwell inside,
While outside is dust and lies.
From your youth you’ve chased instead
Substitutes for what is dead.

Cunning masks what truth once was,
Lies grow strong without a cause.
Painted layers, endless show—
Hide the truth you used to know.

If your conscience you deny,
Money still will pass you by.
So you fake and you pretend,
Even lie to meet the end.

Soon you lose all sense of “right,”
All your inner guiding light.
“Successful” you may appear—
Still a mask is all you wear.

Kill the youthful spark too soon—
“Happy life” becomes your tune.
But beneath that shallow grace
You turn beast in time and place.

Cross the line and you will see:
There’s no path back easily.
What you are will be defined—
By the chains inside your mind.

So in youth, before too late,
Choose the path that breaks your fate:
Leave the swamp of shallow gain—
Rise like mountains, break the chain.



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



The Great Loaf, or Circles of Hell for the Propaganda Breed

Hello there, stitched-up hollow man,
Young apprentice to the scam.
Trained in schools of blind command,
Where lies are law across the land.

They teach a single sacred rule:
“Keep the cattle blind and fool.”
Spread confusion, spread the fear—
And your reward will soon appear:

A seat is set at power’s feast,
For politician, clerk, and beast.
A uniformed guard stands near—
To bless the dinner served in fear.

But do not blink, don’t lose your grip,
For knives are ready to slip.
Try to grab a bigger share—
And someone else will cut you there.

For at the table, just the same,
Another parasite plays the game.
To be replaced is law and norm—
A cycle dressed in civil form.

So be more cunning, cold, and sly,
And longer you will stay inside.
That is how Hell assigns your place—
Rewarding fraud with higher space.

The more you dull the minds below,
The higher up the circles go.



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




Hello, stitched-up hollow clown,
New propaganda man in town.
Trained where blind obedience grows,
And every lie as truth they pose.

One rule was carved into your brain:
Control the herd through fear and pain.
Confuse, distort, and amplify—
And then you earn your place nearby.

A banquet set for state and guard,
For clerks and beasts in uniformed yard.
The guard stands watch, the table set—
But knives are waiting for you yet.

Reach for more than what you’re due—
And someone’s blade will find you too.
At every level, same design:
A parasite replaces sign.

Be colder still, be sharp, be cruel—
That is the only working rule.
For Hell promotes the one who lies,
And ranks you by how truth dies.



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



Land of Soviet Delusion

A “legitimate” little double,
Brings the nation into trouble—
Straight to Hell the chaos flows,
As the circus loudly grows.

“Listen up,” the mass is told,
Blind obedient, bought and sold.
In this mirror of decay,
Truth is twisted every day.



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




A “legitimate” double act,
Dragging order into crack.
Straight to Hell the mess is led,
Where confusion rules the head.

“Listen more,” the crowd is taught,
While the system sells the rot.
In this circus, fake and vile,
Truth is buried all the while.



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



The Rule of Inhuman Lies

The knot is tightened—cold and tight,
And lies will choke out every light.
They fade away, dissolved, unmade…
While inhuman ones hold sway.



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




The knot is drawn, the cord is set,
And lies will strangle all that’s left.
They sink away, become the past—
While inhuman rule holds fast.



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



Different Kitties

There’s a kitty in your home,
Soft and warm where you may roam.
And a kitty of the sea—
Something darker meant to be.

If it’s special forces there,
Cold and trained without a care,
It protects the ruling frame—
Not the people, not the same.



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




A kitty purring in your room,
A street one wandering through the gloom.
And then another—cold and grim,
A sea-born shadow trained to win.

If it’s a unit, sharp and still,
It guards the system’s iron will.
Not you, not me, not human trace—
But order’s cold and empty face.



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



The Herd Being Finished Off

More fearsome than the moray’s bite
Is the predator that turns deceit into its hunting rite.
It uses betrayal as a tool and guide—
A tactic where the weak are fried.

Such creatures multiply and spread,
And turn as one with cold intent instead.
They close in on the grazing herd—
No mercy left, no softer word.

The beasts now gather, sharp and grim—
And slowly finish what’s left of them.




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




More fearsome than the moray’s strike
Is the hunter shaped by hidden vice.
It turns betrayal into plan—
A method used against all man.

They multiply and take their place,
Unite in cold and brutal grace.
Against the grazing herd they move—
With nothing left that they can prove.

The beasts now feast without a sound—
The herd is slowly worn down.



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



Don’t Lose What Matters Most

“Turn inward first,” the philosopher said,
And turn away from all that’s spread.
Let outer sights dissolve and fade—
Look inward where the truth is made.
— J. G. Fichte

Even philosophy affirms the same,
And Eastern mystics spoke that claim.
But mind will turn to broken sieve,
If lies and half-truths you believe.

For all is mirage, empty show,
If words are all you think you know.
Without clear sight, without the flame—
All worlds become a hollow game.

To truly see is law and start.
Lose that—and rot becomes your part.



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




Even philosophy has shown
What mystics knew in tones long gone.
But mind becomes a shattered frame
If fed on lies and blurred-out claim.

Half-truths outside will flood your sight,
And turn all meaning into night.
For world is mirage, veil and guise,
If words replace the inner eyes.

To SEE is root, is ground, is law—
Lose that, and you become no more.



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



A Dog’s World

“The world of red-eyed mongrels,
Of frost-bitten, frozen snouts,
Where each one proudly wrangles
His dog-role without doubts.”
— Varlam Shalamov, 1966

“A man of St. Bernard breed
runs out to the boulevard at dawn.”
— Andrei Voznesensky, 1985


A St. Bernard of heavy breed
guards us in a prisoned feed.
The “bunks”—a foolish land of stone—
now hits the very lowest zone.

A Doberman wears police disguise,
and sells deception to the blind.
A Chow-Chow smiles with gentle face—
a politician of his kind.

An Alabai of propaganda strain
promises paradise again,
while spreading fear with crafted lies
and meme-born chains that mesmerize.

He trains the dogs for war and cries,
for “treatment” and for sacrifice.
A Labrador screams “go! attack!”
as peaceful life is pulled right back.

The herd is sent to serve the fight,
a war defined by wrong and right.
First broken minds must be purged away—
then all obedient dogs obey.

A Bull Terrier rules the kennel state,
and shapes a world of trained-up fate—
where man becomes a lesser breed,
enslaved by lies and mass deceit.



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




The world of dogs with burning eyes,
Of frozen muzzles, muted cries,
Where every beast with pride will say
“I play my dog-role every day.”

A St. Bernard patrols the gate,
Inside the pens where minds decay.
The “bunks”—a foolish, broken land—
Have reached the bottom, where they stand.

A Doberman in uniform,
Keeps order through a constant storm.
A Chow-Chow smiles, soft and tame—
A politician with no shame.

An Alabai of state-made lies
Promotes a heaven built on lies.
With fear and memes he sets the tone,
And breaks the minds he calls his own.

He trains the dogs for war and fear,
For “healing” and for disappear.
The Labrador cries “go, attack!”
And peaceful life is pushed right back.

The herd is led into the night,
To serve a war that calls it “right.”
First broken minds are cast away—
Then all the dogs learn to obey.

A Bull Terrier holds the crown,
A kennel world where humans drown.
A man becomes a lesser breed—
Controlled by lies and endless feed.



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



The Whole World is Kanatchikova Dacha

“Dear TV broadcast station,
On a Saturday, with hesitation,
Kanatchikova’s whole institution
Broke toward the television screen.
Instead of eating, washing, sleeping,
Or taking shots and quiet dreaming,
The whole asylum, mad and reeling,
Gathered round the glowing scene.”
— Vladimir Vysotsky, 1977


Broadcast, broadcast everywhere—
Kanatchikova’s in the air.
Every mind is overrun,
Brains are fried by what you’ve done.

CowID came as perfect luck—
Fools obeyed without a thought stuck.
A lie declared as total truth
Spread its fear into the youth.

This shameful, infernal sphere
Slides from madness into sheer
Bottomless collapse and fall—
Television drives it all.

You, the screen, the central flame,
Feed the storm and stoke the game.
Clouds of nonsense, thick and wide—
You transmit them with pride.

You serve the masters of the lie,
The rulers who will never die.
They burn the world in false belief,
Calling wisdom heresy and grief.

For “witch” once meant: the one who knows—
But that is what the system throws
Into fire, fear, and endless night,
So truth itself will lose its sight.

Broadcast on—keep feeding noise,
Feed the crowd your hollow joys.
The broken minds will gather near—
And swallow lies served hot and clear.



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




“Dear broadcast station—Saturday,
The whole asylum broke away
To watch the screen, to stare and bind,
Instead of healing, food, or mind.”
— Vysotsky (in spirit)


Broadcast, broadcast everywhere—
Kanatchikova’s in the air.
All the minds are overfed
With the nonsense they are fed.

CowID rose like perfect bait—
Fools accepted, sealed their fate.
A lie declared as total truth
Spread its poison through the youth.

This world of shame, this fading dome,
Slides from madness to the foam.
And television, center flame,
Feeds the collapse and plays the game.

You serve the ones who never fall,
Who pull the strings behind it all.
They burn the world in false decree,
And call it “order,” call it free.

For “witch” once meant the one who sees—
So fear and noise replace the light,
And wisdom disappears from sight.

Broadcast on—keep feeding lies,
Serve them hot before their eyes.
The crowd will gather, numb and still—
And swallow poison at their will.



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



Synonym and Antonym

“Monk, this is San Francisco! Millions of half-mad people walk the streets…”
— Monk, 2007


A city—madhouse is its name,
A synonym in urban frame.
Far from roots it drifts away,
Where nature is the price to pay.

And nature stands as antonym,
A truth grown distant, faint and dim.
As dullness spreads from mind to mind,
The loss of sense becomes refined.

It’s hard to see how deep it goes—
Each generation slowly slows,
Decays within a hollow shell,
A place where twisted voices dwell.

A world of lies that serve the few,
Who sort the many into queue.
And nothing seems more vile, obscene—
Unless you lie to what you’ve seen.



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




A city—madhouse, plain and clear,
A synonym that holds it near.
Far from its roots, it drifts astray,
Where nature fades and breaks away.

And nature stands as opposite,
A word that slowly loses fit.
As dullness grows from day to day,
The mind begins to slip away.

It’s hard to see how deep it runs—
Each generation comes undone.
In hollow worlds of noise and lies,
The human essence slowly dies.

They sort the crowd with careful hand,
And push them into wasted land.
And all becomes both base and grim—
Unless you lie once more to win.



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



Counterclockwise

A stadium—modern, bright and loud,
Where foolish crowds move tightly bound,
All walking “against the grain,” they say,
But just in circles every day.

The left leg leads, the motion turns,
Around the loop the system churns.
Two hundred clips you’ll easily find
Explaining this to lesser mind.

In every tiny, trivial scene
A madhouse logic can be seen.
The simplest answer, plain and bare:
A fixed belief, a static stare.

For dull minds know just one design—
A clock that moves in straight-line time.
Beyond that rule they cannot go—
So thinking ends where patterns flow.



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




A stadium—new world display,
Where crowds move in a fixed array,
They call it “against the usual way,”
Yet circle back the same old play.

The left foot leads, the ring is made,
Around the track their steps are laid.
Two hundred videos explain
What simple thought should make quite plain.

In every detail, small and thin,
The signs of rigid minds begin.
For simple souls know just one rule—
A ticking clock, precise and dull.

Beyond that frame they cannot see,
No room for thought or subtlety.
And so they walk, both blind and still—
Around the loop of trained will.



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



We Serve for Pay

We serve for pay, and rot with ease,
We make our bonds with filth and thieves.
But fear remains the driving flame—
The silent force that runs the game.

A bought-out crowd is all they need,
A mass that learns to bow and feed.
And “God’s own slave,” with pious face,
Finds “honor” only in that place.



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




We serve for cash, we share decay,
We walk with filth along the way.
But fear is still the hidden hand
That moves the crowd, that shapes the land.

The bought-out mass is all they crave—
A perfect herd, obedient slave.
And “God’s own servant,” blind and sworn,
Is praised in hellish worlds forlorn.



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



A Short Verse

A short verse—go on, let’s fly!
Stop already… miss the try?
Let it flow the way it goes—
Scattered paths the current throws.



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




A short verse—come on, take flight!
Stop… or did it miss its height?
Let it go the way it flows—
Every line in fragments goes.



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



Cain, Abel, Magdalene

Cain and Abel, Magdalene—
Myths for minds that dim within.
Horror stories served as truth—
Wine as blood of sacred youth.

A tale of dread, a staged design—
And still they call it “holy sign.”
A hollow depth, a closing door—
And nothing truly lies below.



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




Cain, Abel, Magdalene—
Stories fed to dullest kin.
Horror myths in sacred tone,
Wine as blood and flesh as stone.

A tale of terror, set as creed—
For minds that swallow what they read.
A bottom reached, a final sign—
Where even faith becomes design.



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



So-Called “Scientists”

Not even Newton’s law can show
The truth they claim is all we know.
An abstraction cold and blind—
Of force, yet missing deeper mind.

So-called “science” fills the brain
With half-truths dressed up as gain.
And those who cannot truly think
Are taught belief upon the brink.

Through lies and truths half-understood,
They break what once was clear and good.
And where the spirit once was near,
They leave a hollow atmosphere.

What once was knowledge turns to dust,
For systems built on fear and trust.
No spirit lives in their domain—
Just theories stripped of living flame.

For when the soul is taken out,
All “science” circles back to doubt.
And even fear, when fully grown,
Becomes a tool they call their own.



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




Not even Newton’s law remains
A guide for truth in broken frames.
A cold abstraction, sharp and bare—
Yet missing what is truly there.

So-called “science” floods the mind
With half-truths made to keep you blind.
And those who cannot think are led
By faith in things that leave them dead.

Through lies and truths they half-conceal,
They break what once was truly real.
And spirit—once the guiding flame—
Is erased in knowledge’s name.

No living truth in their design,
Just hollow thoughts in rigid line.
And fear, once turned into a tool,
Makes even knowledge act the fool.



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



Gutta-Percha People

Gutta-percha folk will kneel,
Worshipping the thing they feel
Is foul, yet crowned as “rule and guide”—
A beast they cheer, a deified.

Where hinge-jointed creatures crawl,
Is this “improvement” after all?
A twisted form of nature’s plan—
Or mockery of what man began?



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




Gutta-percha people bend,
To praise the thing they should condemn.
They bow before the foul and crude—
And call it sense, and call it “good.”

Where jointed freaks in rows appear,
Is this what “progress” means here?
A better world—or just disguise
For nature turned into lies?



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



Grey-and-Black Striped Reality

Life is cross-striped, line on line,
Woven in a rigid sign.
But a lengthwise arrow gleams—
Like a dream inside our dreams.

Try to reach it, burn it through,
Let old patterns die in you.
Burn your inner stereotypes,
All the stripes that bind your life.

For all are trapped, both old and young,
In grey-black mist where nothing’s sung.
A striped illusion holds them fast—
While dreams in straight lines fade at last.



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




Life is striped in crosswise lines,
Rigid patterns, coded signs.
But a straight arrow pulls ahead—
Like a dream the mind has bred.

Strive to reach it, burn it clean,
All the patterns once you’ve seen.
Burn the stripes that hold you down,
Let the old self fall and drown.

All are stuck, both weak and strong,
In grey-black mist where things go wrong.
And striped illusions hold them tight—
While dreams escape into the light.



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



We Drink for Brutality

We drink for Brutality’s flame,
And lie is the snack in the game.
We find it there, served cold and plain—
No art, no mask, no sweet refrain.



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




We drink to iron, harsh and raw,
And lie we take as tasting law.
We find it there—so crude, so true—
A world with nothing left to do.



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



Compulsive Shopping State

A hollow figure hits the store,
Almost every day once more.
Outwardly—no beast at all,
But beasts don’t think; they just fall.



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




A hollow figure goes to buy,
Again, again, day passing by.
Looks human—nothing seems too wild,
But thinking? That is long exiled.



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



Anger into “Mercy”

Anger turned to “mercy” cold,
Mercy hiding poison’s hold.
Not a dream, not passing night—
Serpents rule in false disguise.



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




Anger bends to “mercy” here,
But that mercy breeds new fear.
Not a dream, not fleeting shade—
Serpents sit where laws are made.



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



Overcomplicated Talk

You may speak in tangled lines,
But no one cares for twisted signs.
It all gets stripped down to the bone—
False “knowledge” rules a world of stone.



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




You may explain in complex ways,
But no one listens, no one stays.
It all gets crushed to simple tone—
Where empty “truth” sits on its throne.



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



Creative Legacy

To drink yourself away is brief,
It leaves behind a hollow grief.
But little stays of what you were—
A fading trace, a blurred memoir.

So though it’s hard, sobriety
Must lead to work and boldness free:
For only labor, sharp and true,
Can build a legacy for you.



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




To lose yourself in drink is fast,
But little of you will last.
You leave behind no steady trace—
Just fading echoes in their place.

So though it’s hard, stay clear, stay strong,
Let sober will lead you along.
Through work and daring, line by line,
A truer legacy will shine.



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



World Filth

To fight this global rot and stain
Is often just to meet disdain—
With barriers, with threats in line,
Where tears and cries won’t change design.

No sobs will help, no grief, no plea—
No mercy in its circuitry.
Only cold and careful thought
Keeps you from being fully caught.



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




To fight this filth that rules the earth
Is often met with twisted worth—
With walls, with pressure, quiet force,
That blocks and bends your chosen course.

No tears will shift it, none will break
The structure built on fraud and fake.
Only clear and sharpened mind
Keeps you from the fate they bind.



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



The Zeroed-Out Double

A hollow “reset” copy stands,
A twisted wretch of mirrored hands.
Not quite a demon, yet it slides—
A fake that in distortion hides.

But touch this filth, disturb its role,
And the system expels the whole.
The structure of the darker plan
Throws overboard what once began.



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




A “zeroed-out” and empty twin,
A crooked shadow carved within.
Not quite a devil, still untrue—
A doubled lie that passes through.

But touch that dirt, provoke its frame,
And order casts it from the game.
The system’s cold and iron flow
Will throw all tainted fragments low.



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



A Small Example of “Progress”

A forest once was there in sight,
They cut the middle out at night.
And oak was swapped for acacia trees—
A showcase of “progress,” if you please.

From outside, still a forest stands,
But inside—thorns and ruined lands.
The rider, walker, passing through
Gets torn by what the change withdrew.

Yet still they say with steady pride:
“It’s better now on every side.”



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




A forest once was standing tall,
They cut the middle—lost it all.
Old oak replaced with acacia line—
A “progress” neatly made to shine.

From far it still looks much the same,
But inside—thorns and broken frame.
Both rider, walker, passing through
Get scratched by what they never knew.

Yet still they chant, both loud and fast:
“It’s better now—it’s made to last.”



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



The Final Stand

Weigh your strength, what still remains,
And face the final clash that stays.
But fight with mind, not blind attack—
For fools are crushed and never back.

The dark will roll them, cold and deep,
Like bugs erased in endless sweep.



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




Weigh your strength, what’s left inside,
And meet the clash you cannot hide.
But fight with mind, not blind despair—
For fools are crushed beyond repair.

The dark will grind them, harsh and fast,
Like insects swept away at last.



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



Mercantile Weakness

Mercantile minds, both weak and vain,
Fear wrapped in pride like powdered gain.
Belief in heresy, false and cold—
Submission to the lies they hold.

A petty world of hollow grace,
Where folly smiles with painted face.




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




Mercantile hearts, both weak and blind,
With fear and pride all intertwined.
A powdered “style,” a fake display—
To kneel to lies and go astray.

Belief in error, ruled by dread—
A petty world that bows its head.



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



Piles of Lies

Mountains pile of filthy lies,
Stacked so high before your eyes.
Endless chatter, cruel and vast—
From the media, shadows cast.

If you trust their every line,
You step into the fools’ design.



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




Piles upon piles of rotten lies,
Stacked so high they block the skies.
Endless noise from hollow screens—
Spawned by monstrous media machines.

If you believe what they impart,
You play the fool and lose your heart.



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



Gangrene

Gangrene takes the limb away,
Betrayal kills the soul someday.
The rot of lies—no truth inside—
With traitors you descend inside.



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




Gangrene will take your leg in time,
Betrayal kills the soul like crime.
The wound of lies will drag you down—
With traitors, Hell becomes your crown.



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



Iron Sulfate of Reinforced Lies

The vitriol strikes the senses hard,
And fear hits mind like sudden shard.
The soul begins to break apart,
Following a poisoned chart.

In that world, the chemistry is plain—
All things are reduced to stain.
Beauty fades and disappears,
Light grows scarce through fog of years.

Only bottom everywhere—
A hollow world beyond repair.



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




The vitriol burns straight to the brain,
And fear descends like iron chain.
The soul unravels, torn and spun,
By worlds where “truth” and filth are one.

In that place the formula stays:
All is reduced in darkened ways.
Beauty vanishes from sight—
Only depths where dies the light.



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



How Not to Lose the Soul in Hell

First snow is falling, thin and light,
A fragile crust of frozen white.
A weak start—slips the foolish mind,
No depth, no ground of truth to find.

How does one leave that inner hell,
Where madness grows in every cell?
Only through struggle, sharp and true—
The soul stays living next to you.

Those who are weak will drift away,
Drawn toward the final grey.
So shed the weight of inner haze,
Prepare your mind for harder days.

To fight the dark, to break the spell,
Train thought to see, to think, to tell.
Through shifting worlds and heavy thought,
Let clarity be all you’ve sought.



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




First snow falls down, so thin, so pale,
A brittle path, a fragile trail.
A weak beginning, slip and fall—
No depth to steady, none at all.

How leave the hell where madness grows,
Where every thought in chaos flows?
Only through struggle—sharp and clear—
The soul survives when it stays near.

The weak will drift toward fading light,
To empty end and silent night.
So cast away the fog of lies,
And train the mind to recognize.

Through heavy thought, through shifting flame,
Let clarity become your aim.



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



Not One of the Scribbling Crowd

I will not join the scribbling line,
Where verses march like drills in time.
If not aligned, the words decay—
And poison seeps through every phrase.

The bought-out fool knows well the game,
And feeds the crowd with crafted flame.
A stream of lies is all they give—
A world where truth forgets to live.

I’ve seen such nonsense laid to rest,
I’ve buried it and passed the test.
And yet beside them, none compare—
I face the voids of hell laid bare.

For they are given sugar-coat—
A pastel lie, a velvet note—
While I see depths where silence screams,
And fracture hides behind the seams.



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




I won’t belong to scribbler’s trade,
Where lines are drilled and neatly made.
If not aligned, they turn to spite—
And drip with venom, cold and bright.

The bought-out mind knows well the role,
And feeds the crowd a false control.
Only lies are what they throw—
A world where truth no longer grows.

I’ve seen such nonsense in its grave,
And left it where the hollow wave.
Yet none of them can stand the sight—
Of depths where darkness swallows light.

They’re handed lies in gentle tone,
A pastel mask, a polished bone.
But I see chasms, sharp and bare—
Where truth is breaking everywhere.



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



Future Global Cataclysms

To the liars came the order clear:
Keep the little world in “peace” and fear.
Cataclysms?—none allowed,
Only nonsense for the crowd.

The sun grows stronger, burning high,
While trails are drawn across the sky.
They think such marks will block the light,
Or turn its force away from sight.

But nature bends to no command—
No script, no lie, no guiding hand.



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




The liars got their firm decree:
Maintain the world’s “stability.”
Cataclysms?—not allowed,
Just feed the usual fooled-up crowd.

The sun grows harsher, day by day,
While trails are drawn across its way.
They think that somehow they can stall
Or weaken light that burns through all.

But nature answers not to plan—
Nor lies devised by frightened man.



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



Wednesday Victory

On Wednesday we'll celebrate the win—
Spartak beats Zenit once again!
No longer ruled by countless crazes—
Just one now fills our minds and phases.

We've caught the fever, good and strong;
One madness drove the rest along.
We'll toast it proudly through Friday night...
Look there—the Zenit fans in sight!

Let's chase them down and loudly roar,
That’s how true fandom grows still more.
Though nonsense reigns on every side,
The crowd wears madness like a badge of pride.



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




On Wednesday we shall cheer the day—
Spartak sends Zenit on its way!
No longer trapped by every craze—
One grand delusion fills our days.

The fever caught us, deep and fast;
One madness drove the others past.
We'll celebrate till Friday's light...
Look! Zenit supporters come in sight!

Run them down and raise the din—
That’s how loyal fans all win!
Though nonsense floods the nation wide,
The crowd still hugs it full of pride.



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



Eternal Filth of Pseudo-Life

Eternal filth rolls on,
Dragging ever downward, drawn,
From the heights into the Pit—
There it is again, well-lit:

Another Overton window wide,
Swinging open with the tide.



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






Eternal sludge flows ever on,
From top to bottom, dark and drawn.
Down toward the depths it slides below—
Look again: the window shows,

Another Overton frame in sight,
Pushing darkness dressed as light.



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




Eternal filth.
Down it goes.
To the Bottom.
There it flows.

Look again—
The window's thrown:
Another Overton
Has opened wide.



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



Types of Sports Commentators

For the self-proclaimed wise and bright,
And oddball experts day and night,
There's always some commentator's voice
To guide their thoughts and shape their choice.

Tell me, O Zombie Sports on screen,
Reveal what all these types may mean:
When will there be a special cast
For every fool from first to last—

For phone-bound dreamers, cloistered men,
And dazed enthusiasts now and then?
Diversity is all the rage—
Invite them all upon the stage!

The madhouse cheers the noble sign:
"Let every tribe and fashion shine!"



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




For know-it-alls and quirky cranks,
For every fool in ranking ranks,
A commentator fills the air,
Explaining what is happening there.

Mirror, Zombie Sports, now say,
And tell the truth without delay:
When will they cast new character types
For every group and every stripe—

For gadget-zombies, zealots grim,
And smoke-dazed minds with vision dim?
Tolerance rules from wall to wall—
"Invite them in!" cries one and all.

The Great Madhouse will praise the deed:
A perfect age for every creed.



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



The Little Drudge Saves Strength

The little drudge saves up his might—
Vacation days, a brief respite.
It ends, and back he has to go,
To earn for his sweetheart, bending low

Beneath the yoke he knows too well,
Once more in service of the spell.



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




The drudge is storing strength at last—
A holiday that flies too fast.
When it is gone, he earns once more,
Bowed before the same old force.

For his darling, for the pay,
He bends to Evil every day.



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




The little fool saves strength awhile—
A vacation with a weary smile.
Then back to work, back to the role,
Back to selling time and soul.

For his sweetheart and the dough,
He bends once more beneath the foe.



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



Superhuman Effort

Harmonious effort? Forget the dream—
This world is stitched by darker schemes.
Weakness and exertion vast
Take their turns, from first to last.

In any task that's hard and steep,
To overstrain is all too cheap.
So learn to feel the subtle line
Before exhaustion starts to climb.

Let not fatigue become extreme,
Another tyrant, harsh and mean.
Though decay spreads everywhere,
Through super-effort—rise from there!



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




Balanced effort? Cast aside—
Evil built the world we ride.
Powerlessness comes and goes,
Then fierce exertion overflows.

In any undertaking great,
To push too far is easy fate.
So tread the boundary with care,
And watch for weariness lurking there.

Let not fatigue become excess,
Or strength itself turn into stress.
Though rot surrounds us far and near,
Through greater effort—rise from here!



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




Forget balance.
This world's not fair.

Weakness.
Overdrive.

Weakness.
Overdrive.

Cross the line—
But know it well.

Let not fatigue
Become a hell.

Though rot is everywhere in sight,

Through greater effort—
Climb the height!



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



Horses Are Always Changed Midstream

The horses die while crossing through,
Fresh colts replace the weary crew.
In blinkers still they race ahead,
By myths of glory blindly led.

And so the crossing seems a gate,
A road to some exalted fate.
A hunter left, a keeper right—
Sink neck-deep in the fog tonight.

For Hell survives by one great art:
Forget the rot, make a new start.
New riders struggle for the prize,
Still lost beneath delusion's skies.

Should one endure through two full rounds,
He might disturb Hell's ordered grounds.
So obstacles are built with care,
To break his stride before he's there.



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




The horses fall. The crossing stays.
Young stock arrives to take their place.
With blinkers on they charge ahead,
By tales of glory blindly led.

The crossing looks like paradise,
A promised road, a shining prize.
A hunter left, a warden right—
Sink in the murk and lose the light.

The law of Hell is plain enough:
Forget the rot and call it love.
New fools compete for scraps and fame,
While playing still the selfsame game.

But if one rider lasts too long
And sees at last what all is wrong,
Then barriers rise across his track—
To break his legs and drive him back.



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




Horses die.
The crossing stays.

Young ones run
Through foggy days.

Blinkers on.
The myths survive.

Hell renews
Its hive.

Forget the rot.
Chase the prize.

That's how delusion
Never dies.

And if one rider
Sees the lie—

The road grows thorns
To break his stride.



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



Buying Filth

We buy corruption, pay the price
With movements of the soul inside.
See the crime in that exchange—
Look too late, and all seems strange.

If you fail to see the cost,
You're among the ones who've lost,
Partners in the wrongs displayed,
In every outrage daily made.

Yet words are wasted, all the same—
The world has sunk beyond its shame.
Down to the Bottom, far and wide,
And there it drifts with failing tide.



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




We buy filth and gladly trade
Pieces of the soul away.
See the crime beneath the deal—
Hurry, while you're still able to feel.

If you do not see it there,
You help sustain the foul affair.
Every outrage, every theft—
You share the burden that is left.

Still, words are wasted in the end;
No sermon now the course can bend.
The world has reached the deepest seam—
And sinks still lower in the stream.



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




Buy the filth.
Sell the soul.

Call it profit.
Pay the toll.

Fail to see—
You play a part.

Every outrage
Leaves its mark.

Words are vain.
The verdict's done.

The world has hit
The Bottom.



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



Cannibal

A cannibal is not the one
Who chews through neighbors just for fun.
The true one is the brute who thrives
By crushing other people's lives.

A hulking fool with little mind,
To books and learning always blind,
Who finds oppression sweet and right—
That is the cannibal in sight.



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




A cannibal is not the man
Who eats his neighbors when he can.
The real one is the muscle-bound fool
Who makes oppression his golden rule.

Untaught, unread, and proud of might,
He tramples others day and night.
Where force replaces thought and skill,
The cannibal is feeding still.



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




Not he who eats
His fellow man.

But he who crushes
When he can.

A brute unlearned,
By power thrilled—

That's where the true
Cannibal is revealed.



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



The Tautology of Murk and Mire

We muddle in the murk, then make
A bigger heap of mud to stake.
We'll guard it fiercely, day by day,
Until our final breath away.

Murk-eyed folk in murky lands—
We are the majority's hands.
Like worms content within the clay,
In filth and mire we choose to stay.

A world turned upside down and wrong:
We roll in mud our whole life long.
And if your stubbornness grows thin,
Just slide downhill and wallow in.



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




We stir the murk and brew more haze,
Then build a larger mound to praise.
We'll guard that dirt with all our might
Until we vanish from the light.

Dim-eyed souls in dimming times—
We're everywhere, in countless lines.
In muck we flourish, proud and free;
Filth has become identity.

The world reversed, absurdly spun—
We bathe in mud and call it fun.
And if you yield, don't even try:
Just slide toward Bottom through the slime.



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




Murk breeds murk.
Mud breeds mud.

Build it bigger.
Guard the crud.

Murk-eyed masses,
Far and near—

Filth's our nature,
Loud and clear.

Yield a little,
Drop the fight—

Slide through slime
Out of sight.



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



Eight to Nil

Eight to nil—the score I keep,
Blows and prizes, earned and steep.
That must mean I've chosen right,
Held my course and stayed in fight.

Any other road, I fear,
Leads where bought-out souls appear.



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




Eight to nil—the scoreboard's clear,
Blows and honors brought me here.
So the path I've walked is true,
Hard, but worthy to pursue.

Take another road instead—
Sell your soul and walk half-dead.



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




Eight to nil.

Blows and praise—
That's the score
Of all these days.

Right road chosen.
No retreat.

The other path?
Sellout street.



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



Gone and Faded

All that was dear has drifted past—
Yet not all gone, I learned at last.
I used to be a fool like them,
And drifted into my own hell’s hem.

Too early there I came to see,
And flipped all values inside me.
To sell oneself for scraps and dust—
Is plague-like, rotten, false, unjust.

They called it “health” and told the tale,
Of CowID winds and signals pale,
Before that—AIDS, another frame,
To bend perception, shift the blame.

What they call “normal” is a stain—
A world that teaches loss as gain.



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




All things that mattered slipped away,
Yet not all vanished in decay.
I once was blind like all the rest—
And reached my personal hell’s nest.

Too soon I saw, too late I knew,
And turned all values upside through.
To sell yourself for next to none—
Like plague or swelling, it is done.

They called it “health” and made it sound
Through CowID myths that spread around.
Before that—AIDS, another guise—
To shape the way the people size.

What’s “normal” now is just a scar—
A world gone wrong, both near and far.



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



Search Rankings of Lies

A heretic? No stake, no fire—
In olden times, a spy, a liar.
Now internet is Lethe’s shore,
Where truth sinks down and comes up poor.

So now it is integrity
That gets led out for penalty.
The age of censorship arrives—
Where bots decide what truth survives.

A bot, adjusted, slightly tuned,
By hands behind the scenes attuned
To push the fraud into the stream
Of global chaos, fractured dream.

This digital infernal guide
Will drain your mind and twist its tide.
The aim of those who pull the strings—
To turn the thinking into things.

They showed us AIDS, then CowID too—
The pattern’s clear if you break through:
When minds are dulled and sense is gone,
A heretic is just a pawn.



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




A heretic? No fire’s set—
Just buried deep in internet.
Where Lethe flows through digital sea,
And lies float up as clarity.

So now integrity is tried,
While truth is ranked and pushed aside.
Censorship comes dressed as law,
With bots that sort what people saw.

A bot is tuned by hidden hand
To spread confusion through the land.
The goal is simple, stark, and cold—
To turn the thinking into mould.

They showed us AIDS, then CowID—
A pattern few were meant to see.
When minds collapse and vision dies,
A heretic is no surprise.



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



A New Hundred Poems

One hundred gone. And through the night
I’ll start a hundred more in flight.
To grind the water once again—
But never lie inside the pen.

The water hardens into ice,
And from it I will shape a knife.
No path returns me to the herd—
That road leads only down, unheard.



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




One hundred poems fade away,
And in this night I start the play.
To pound the water, once again—
But never let the verse be vain.

And I will carve a blade of light.
No way back to the mindless crowd—
That path descends, dark and loud.



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




A hundred gone.
A hundred new.

Night returns—
I pass it through.

Water turns
To sharpened steel.

No way back
To herd or feel.



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



Too Much Honor

Too much honor—speaking soft,
So the truth gets lifted off.
None can match the Dark’s own pace—
In a world of butcher’s grace.

Perestroika, speeding time,
Misha crowned in Hell as prime.
Acceleration of decay—
Life’s thin style gets worn away.



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




Too much honor—softened speech,
Trying limits none can reach.
None can race with darkness’ art—
In a world where knives impart.

Perestroika, faster still,
Misha ruling Hell at will.
Speeding rot in every line—
Life erased in fading sign.



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




Too much honor.
Softened tone.

Darkness moves
Far alone.

Perestroika.
Speed of decay.

Life gets erased
Day by day.



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




For now we all just bleat and stare.
More prospects lead to slaughter’s door—
Of course it always means much more…



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




We’ll perish, if we get the chance,
But now we bleat in mindless dance.
The path to slaughter only grows—
Of course, that’s how the system goes.



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




If we make it through.

For now we bleat
Like others do.

More roads to slaughter
Open wide—

And “of course”
That’s the guide.