Прибытие в Ад, Arrival in Hell

Мой друг, "отчизне" зазвездим
Словами зычный подзатыльник,
Прогнуться если не хотим
Под мир позорный и дебильный.



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СицилизЬм

Поменяли рабство денег
На партийную ***ню.
Чахнет умный неврастеник:
Места нет в Дерьме Огню.



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Заноза отчаянья
Среди одичания
Лечебное средство,
Коль Морок наследство:
Пробьёт с гноем брешь
В Обманах. Так режь,
Заноза побольше, —
И ум станет тоньше!




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Общение и дружба

В кучку! — чтобы ПУСТОТА
Одолела неспроста,
А почувствовалась "норма" —
С "основным рефлексом" Прорва. 



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Идут года.
Бредут стада
В Загон Всемирный.
На входе — смирный.




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Нет друзей у тех, кто хочет
Ад познать, притом не бздит.
Где-то идиот хохочет —
"Ближний" тоненько пердит...




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Прибытие в Ад

Гитлер, Путлер, Сатана:
Пункт конечный — Ниже ДНА.




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Bitter Radish, Garlic, and the Scalpel of Comparisons

I ate some bitter radish—
Remembered life’s old savage madness,
And comparisons began to boil,
Exposing worlds of Lie and spoil.

Life is bitterer than the root,
While “consciousness” is dead to boot—
So dead that if you cut it clean,
From mouths comes only “baa” and “meh,”
While endless troubles wear away
The God-Spark’s dwindling little flame.

Though, truth be told, those sparks are few—
The world is shamefully poor in spirit, too.
A slave-built order, foul and grim,
Stands on the backs of fools like him.
The media’s howling leads the herd
To “healing,” war, and every absurd
Campaign where half-beasts march in line,
Mistaking bondage for design.

So better eat your garlic raw,
And keep a stock behind the door—
It drives the evil spirits away.
Though evil rules the media day by day,
Turning every fool into a beast,
And serving fear at every feast.

So better fast—don’t waste your breath
Dreaming of “Heaven” down in Death.
The CREATURES will keep grinding on,
Oppressing half-beasts till they’re gone—
Until even the old-world set
Turns into something you can’t forget.

Fasting, however, can be wise:
Let the sick mind waste and shrink in size,
Till Soul defeats the muddy thought
And seeks the Spirit’s spheres in dark.
The Mind beneath the Spirit must stay—
All else is nonsense, or profit’s play.

Then Mind becomes the Scalpel bright,
Dissecting herds by ruthless light.
Yet that is not its final aim:
It cuts a path back to the Flame,
And by revealing what is true,
It saves the Soul by cutting through.

So listen only to the Source—
Its whisper is your hidden course.
The Soul will resonate with it
When the Scalpel’s edge is keen and fit.

But when you cut, dissect, divide,
Keep sober measure as your guide:
The means must never rise above
The Spirit’s force, its heat, its love.



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Splinter of Despair

Amidst the wild decay,
A healing cure may find its way
When Darkness is the legacy:
It pierces lies with agony.

A breach through falsehoods, sharp and raw—
So cut! Let pain reveal the flaw.
The deeper splinter, the more clear:
The mind grows finer through the fear.



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The Years Go By

The years roll on.
The herds move on
To the World’s Great Pen—
All tame at the gate,
They enter, then wait.



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Rats, Gray Mice, the Coming Famine — and Free Cheese Thereafter

To Lieutenant Colonel Shilov,
Special Forces instructor in mine warfare

Pride, medals, rank,
And pockets fat with cash—
But when the war drums sound,
The little mice grow bashful,
Quiet as ash.

Yet mice will march
As mice have marched before;
The books forever lie—
And rats exploit the lore.

They use those lies
Until the heat draws near:
“It’s all for fools”—
And fools will disappear.

The school will dull the mind,
The media finish the task:
To swallow every lie
Is shame—
Yet obedience they call brave.

But only for a while.
When war begins to roar,
The mice crawl from their holes;
The rats retreat behind the lines
And count their spoils once more.

For rats, one year may count as two
In cunning born of strife;
While heads grow fat with emptiness—
And rot devours all life.

Till finally the mice
Can bear no more the strain:
THE WORLD’S GREAT BOTTOM
Makes them quiet once again.

Then famine comes.
And after famine—cheese,
“Free cheese” once more—
To lure the starving beasts
Into the global madhouse doors.

A Digital Camp,
Where shackles have new names:
Fear, Lies, and Nonsense,
And obedience to bots and games.

The media spread their poison gas;
The final rot is done.
The rats have built their paradise—
And every mouse is one.



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My Friend, Let’s Give “Motherland” a Verbal Smack

My friend, let’s give our “Motherland”
A ringing slap with words that sting—
If we refuse to bow and bend
Before this shameful, stupid thing.



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The Impossible Path

My native land of fools and lies,
Where Fear and Nonsense fill the skies;
The idiots are tortured there,
Yet never notice, never care.
They trust, they hoard, they dream away—
While little sparks of soul decay.

A handful rise above the crowd,
But they are few, and not too proud
To find no unity, no might,
No vision reaching toward the light.
Doubt’s merciless and patient hand
Kills every urge to make a stand—
And slowly drains the will to strive:
No Hell can build a Paradise.

The Search for Spirit has been cheapened;
Few are worthy, though many seek it.
The God-Spark, once a living flame,
Has vanished in the hollow game.

But one in thousands, one in more,
Will kneel before the lies no more;
Will cast the false beliefs aside,
And trust no prophet as a guide.
Then, groping through the dark unknown,
They seek the Source by strength alone.

A perilous, IMPOSSIBLE road—
Too hard for those who fear the load.
Only a desperate, burning drive,
With every effort kept alive,
Can offer even the SMALLEST CHANCE
For Insight’s long-awaited renaissance.

For only Insight, breaking through,
Can light the path and make it true—
The road is lost in Hell-black night:
Only the Vision brings the light.



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No Friends for Those Who Dare

No friends await the one who’d dare
To face Hell’s depths without a care.
Somewhere an idiot laughs aloud—
While his “neighbor” farts, thin and proud…



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Communication and Friendship

“Come together!” — so the Void
May be felt as joy and pride;
So the “normal” can prevail—
With the Chasm as the basic tale.



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Arrival in Hell

Hitler, Putler, Satan too—
The final stop: the Bottom Through.



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Sicilism

We traded money’s chains of old
For party rule, absurd and cold.
The clever mind grows sick and thin—
No room for fire where filth wins.






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