12 poems

Into the Final Circle

A squirrel needs no arrow’s sign—
It runs forever on the line.
No Mind, no Honor, Truth, or Soul
Are needed in Hell’s numbered hole.
Hell’s servants? That is what we are,
While pseudo-states spin round like tar.
Hell is Earth. There is no escape—
Just Lies and Fear in every shape.

Nonsense floods us, bends and drowns,
And turns bright minds to foolish clowns.
The rotten stench of media,
The dung of false laws, every day—
New rules and orders, lies on lies,
To keep the brainless pacified.
A thousand petty walls arise,
A thousand traps in small disguise.
The little things become the chains—
Their endless swarm destroys the brains.

A squirrel needs no arrow’s sign—
It runs forever on the line.
No Mind, no Honor, Truth, or Soul—
The fool is deaf inside the Hole.
Blind, mute, he follows every meme;
A filthy slogan kills the dream.
And Fear, when everything is black,
Becomes the compass on his track.

The Dung grows thicker, foul and wide;
The Stench cuts through from every side.
And lower still the human slime
Descends toward its appointed time.
The Final Circle draws more near—
The very bottom waits down here.

That Circle is no "country" known;
It lies beneath the deepest stone.
The New Digital Camp stands ready
For broken heads and minds unsteady—
For "citizens" of beastly lands,
Controlled by invisible commands.

No longer squirrels upon the wheel—
Now sheep who neither think nor feel.
The "citizen" becomes a ram,
While every lord becomes a scam—
A Komodo, cold and grim,
With reptile eyes and serpent grin.

This idiotic world prepares
To fall through every last of its layers.
The Darkness spreads its waiting snare—
And finds its finest harvest there.

A squirrel needs no arrow’s sign—
It runs forever on the line.
No Mind, no Honor, Truth, or Soul—
Just sheep stampeding to the Final Hole.



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The Shit-Eaters Await “Victory”

The shit-eaters wait for “Victory,”
Swimming deep in fools’ absurdity,
In Fear and Lies, in moral rot,
In all the garbage they have got.

From age to age they kneel and cry,
“Rebirth!” beneath a fascist sky.
They’ll even sell them “rising” tall
While fascist filth devours them all.

And once again the mental wreck
Will swallow every load of crap—
The kind that only madmen bear,
Or turds can stomach in a lair.

They’ll call it “truth,” they’ll call it “light,”
They’ll call the darkest dung “the right.”
And generation after generation
Will praise the same degeneration.



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The Pu Group — Also Mu

The Pu Group — or simply Mu,
In worship of the rotten goo,
Where Mind itself is barred from view,
And Spirit cannot pierce the Dark through.



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Pu — or Mu

The Pu Group — also Mu,
Bows to every heap of goo;
Mind is banned from breaking through,
Spirit’s chained and Darkness rules.



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The Morals of Lords, the Morals of Slaves

The morals of lords, the morals of slaves—
All bury the First Principles in graves,
Then gild the chains and praise the flaws.
Both serve the fools, both serve the cause.

The First Principles: Truth and Soul—
They dwell within, beyond control.
Forget the world; look deep inside:
There Truth and Spirit still abide.

But while you seek them in the night,
This little world shall miss the Light.



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Not Creatures, in Reply

For sties and cages—
You’re dumb, chained slaves,
You worthless fucks,
The bastards of luck.



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No Answer, Beasts

For sties and cages—
You dull-minded slaves,
You miserable freaks,
That Fate itself breeds.



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The Cat, the Fool, the Way

A stray cat came.
He wants your touch,
Then food—no more,
He needs not much.

The idiot, though,
Through storms of lies
Keeps chasing pay,
With empty eyes.
Madness is bait,
Delusion’s feed—
A feast for fools
Who never heed.

Gavvakh feeds evil,
Day by day:
We are its food,
The ass’s way.

The spiritual path
Demands you see:
Reject the muck,
The fear, the lie.
Seek the Source
Or never cry—
For Darkness waits
Where falsehood thrives,
And dung of lies
Devours our lives.



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“Motherland” — Mother-Scar

“Motherland”—Mother-scar,
A cesspool from near and far.
Worth a penny, maybe less,
In the Bottom’s Lie and mess.

Now the whole world’s sunk below—
“Health” the idol, masks in row,
Cheap booze, muzzles, endless war;
“Second-grader” chants once more
Ancient bullshit, stale and grim,
Stumbling blind through darkness dim—
Killing Reason, limb by limb.



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The Train of Evil

The emergency brake has torn away—
The Train of Evil speeds to clay.
It hurtles straight into the flame,
To burn to ash—and that’s its fate.

It could not end another way:
You cannot crush the Spirit day by day
Without a pause, without restraint—
The soul will break, and Evil’s train will break.



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The Chagrin Skin and the Unattached Mind

Monsieur Balzac—
No skin? What a mess!
The fool runs wild,
A mindless excess.

But Mind is not made
To be bound by a sum:
Give nothing, count nothing—
Let freedom become!

No quota, no debt,
No leash on the brain—
Then what can you take
From the homeless and sane?



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Shmurdyak into the Ram-Virus

A gaunt vulture tears its prey,
Feasting on the dead each day.
Vulture—VERMIN. Corpse—a fool.
Shmurdyak marks Evil’s rule.

They jab the fools, then count the dead,
March the lifeless where they’re led.
Shmurdyak—Evil’s calling card:
A poisoned world, a graveyard yard.