32 poems

Hellish Songs and Dances

Misanthropes — stomp three times!
Sing the songs of Hell tonight!
Drown the mass-media in noise —
Hail! Hail! Hail! — you hellish boys!
Song has dried? Then pour some more:
Greet the Hell you so abhor!



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Misanthropes — three stomps! Hurrah!
Sing the song of Hell! Ha-ha!
Drown the media — HAIL! HAIL!
When the song runs dry — refill!
Raise your glass and sneer at Hell!



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Vinyl Never Died

Vinyl lived —
Never grieved,
Sailed through censors,
Port by port:
“Pretty sweet!” —
“Okay, you fool!
What a feat!”



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Vinyl

Vinyl — not spoiled,
Through censorship sailed,
To ports called “Not Bad!” —
“Okay, you fool!”



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Vinyl stayed chill,
Never quite killed,
Past censors it sailed
To “Pretty Good!” ports:
“All right, you dumb fool!”



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A Nest of the Soulless

A nest of the soulless,
The stupid, the low—
“Where are all the people?”
“Not many, you know…”



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Where Are the People?

A snake-pit of fools,
Of the soulless and small—
“Where are all the people?”
“Few remain… if at all.”



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The Right to Judge

There’s one Right to judge—
One thread, one true grudge;
Without it, you’re vile,
Though crowned king of Hell’s isle.



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The Slaughterhouse

A slaughterhouse. The meek obey,
And slowly turn to beasts each day.
Their stubborn quest for “happiness”
Drives nails of madness through the brain.



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The Slaughterhouse

A slaughterhouse — the willing slave
Turns into the beast they crave.
The endless hunt for “happiness”
Drives nails into each fool’s brain.



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Literary Sites

Ukrainian sites are worse,
Than the Russian ones, my friend—
No “sedition”! What a curse!
Swearing? NO! It must not end!

Yet without a curse or two
In a world of filthy lies—
Like no poison in the brew
Poured by mass-media wise.



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The Filth

Filth — in clusters,
Soon — it festers.
The few who dare
End up there—
Or dream their truth is everywhere.



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The Filth

Filth — in hordes,
Then — in swarms.
Lone dissenters
Meet the jailers,
Or see Reality in dreamers.



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Gloom, Gunpowder and Crap

Gloom, gunpowder, trash and crap—
The fruits of every Total Trap.
Degradation, chaos, rot—
The “goal” behind each Evil plot.



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Gloom, Gunpowder, Shmurdyak

Gloom, gunpowder, Shmurdyak—
The end-result of lies gone black.
Degradation, sheer attack—
The “meaning” of all Evil’s knack.



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Afraid to Think

They fear to think
More than they fear Hell:
For one may blink—
And find oneself there, as a fiend.



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Afraid of Thought

They fear to think
More than Hell’s brink:
For it may be true—
Hell’s inside you.



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A New Art Form — Troubadour Chimney-Sweeps

Troubadours—
Chimney-sweeps,
Culture? None—
The filth still creeps.
Songs for hides,
And hymns that roar—
That’s the art
They’re singing for.


To troubadours,
To chimney-sweeps—
Gall in every
Song they keep.
No art is nobler,
None more grand:
Let the chimney
Turn to broom—
And some of Filth
Will meet its doom!



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Troubadour Chimney-Sweeps

Troubadours—
Chimney-sweeps!
No culture—
Filth just creeps.
Songs for skin,
And hymns that bite:
That’s their art,
Their grand delight!


Chimney-sweeps,
With bile for words,
Pouring poison
Through their chords.
Let the chimney
Turn to broom—
Sweep some Filth
Into its doom!



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The Partisan Metaphor

The forests thick, the “partisans”
March like meek and mindless rams.
Raise their children, feed their kine—
“Citizens,” the great design!



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Pe-Me-Er-Nya

Pe-Me-Er-Nya — pure lunacy,
A load of crap and idiocy!
Not even stench deserves a day,
Yet fools in filth for decades stay.


They rot away in muck and dread—
The “Russian World”: Fear, Lies, and Bred.



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Pe-Me-Er-Nya — pure decay,
A load of crap in full display.
Not worth a stink for half a day—
Yet fools in filth for decades stay.

They rot in lies, in fear, in dread:
The “Russian World” — where madness spreads.



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The Country’s Secret

The country’s secret:
Slaves grow strong
On lies so total—
Crush them? Not hard at all...
Those faces make me sick!



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The Secret of the Land

The secret of the land:
Its slaves are strong
On Total Lies—
Oppress them? Easy!
Those faces sicken!



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The “Guardian” of “Order”

“Guardian” of “order,” a garden of fools,
With quotas for “cracking” their suspects’ rules.
Greedy for kickbacks, the bastard goes harder—
The precinct reeks rotten, and nothing is darker.



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“Guardian” of order—what a fraud!
A quota for arrests—how odd!
Greedy for bribes, the bastard’s game:
The precinct reeks of filth and shame.



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A Godforsaken Little World

A godforsaken little world,
Where serving Crap is duty hurled
Upon the fools from childhood on.
Man is a tool — and then he’s gone.


So what — must we just take the blame?
Create, and warm your soul with flame.
Seek through Reality a way
To save yourself from the decay.


This little world and Truth oppose;
“People” and “slaves” — two matching names.



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A Wretched Little World

A wretched little world of rot,
Where serving Bullshit is their lot,
Drilled into fools from childhood days.
Man is a means in all its ways.


So must we bow and just endure?
Create — and keep your spirit pure.
Seek Reality; escape the trance—
The world and Truth leave no romance.


“World” and “Truth” are opposites;
“People” and “slaves” — synonymous.



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Harbingers of Hell

Scumbags come to meet you,
Low-lifes line the way—
Harbingers of Hell,
Welcoming decay.


They indulge the liars,
They dress falsehood as truth;
Harbingers of Hell,
Lies in every mouth.



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Scumbags coming your way,
Low-lifes waiting in line—
Harbingers of Hell,
Who make lies seem divine.



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What a Joke!

What a joke—
The “majors” choke
On piles of crap,
But “not the bottom”—
What a trap!


Scum’s in demand,
Scum’s highly prized—
That’s how the world
Gets “civilized.”



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What a joke:
The “majors” choke
In their shit—
“Not the pit!”
Scum’s a hit!