77 poems

Gullible Fools Walk Willingly to Slaughter

No “global terror,” no plague in the air —
Just sheep-made viruses fed by the glare
Of screens that whisper and rot every mind,
A zoo for the blind, by the blind designed.

How long will you trust it?
How long will you sleep?
You must test and question —
No time left to keep.

To wait is to dig
Your own grave in the ground.
Though awkward and bitter,
Begin turning around.

Start thinking. Start doubting.
Tear falsehood apart.
Or poison of madness
Will swallow your heart.

Deception and blind faith —
A road to the knife.
The icons are bleeding,
Hell seeps into life.

Deceit is around you,
No reason to bow.
Worse even than Judas —
It murders you now.

It murders your spirit,
Your love, and your dreams.
How long will you listen
To whispers and schemes?

From childhood they fool you,
Relentless, obscene.
And yet you grow fond of
The cage in between.

For bondage is easy,
And comfort feels right.
Why question the system
When answers are tight?

One answer for all —
For years they repeat:
“Stay silent. Obey.
Do not think. Just eat.”

But who ever promised
You’ll live if you comply?
You swallow this nonsense —
But all of you die.

You’ll fade into nothing,
Your mind swept away,
Beneath the cold shadow
Of death’s final day.

The lie’s reached its limit —
A false plague, a regime.
It kills off the reason,
And life like a dream.



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



The End of the Consumer Age

An almost-Soviet chorus:
And once again the battle cries,
A restless pounding in the chest,
“Lenin” still young before our eyes,
And bloody October ahead, unblessed.

And once again the chant is “TAKE!!!”
No heart remains within the frame.
“Grab all you can, don’t hesitate —
There’s more ahead — consume the game!”

If there’s no heart within your chest,
Your mind is broken, dull, and lost.
And fools will march, like all the rest,
Into fake plagues at any cost.

No rifles, camps, or firing lines
Are needed now to make them crawl:
Just strip a little comfort — signs —
And herds will rush to slaughter’s call.

They need blinders and a prize,
A carrot dangling in their sight.
They’ll serve whatever power lies —
They’ve long been steered, both day and night.

The herd must always live in fear —
But never something real — oh no.
Feed them absurdities severe,
And broken minds will surely grow.

Only such minds will take as truth
A crumbling lie, absurd and grim:
They’ll bare themselves, in bloated youth,
For poisoned shots that slowly dim.

Yes, many deaths are yet to be
Where hearts are gone, where none can feel.
And this the final road you see —
A camp ahead. A silent kill.



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



Digital Concentration Camp

You think your phone was made for you,
From kindness, rich and wide?
A gift of care, so warm and true,
With love as guiding guide?

For near and far, for all mankind,
Concerned with just one aim:
To stretch the limits of your mind —
Then lock you in the frame.

To give the lonely voice and space,
To speak, to shout, to be —
But hide the net, the tight embrace
Of total scrutiny.

A control so vast and deep
You’re open like a book,
No step you take they fail to keep,
No move escapes their look.

And now you’re not alone — you’re with them,
Together with all your “own”:
your dreams,
your deeds,
your guts
are shown.

Then they will only raise the scale,
Turn power into “Five-G”:
Your health will crack, your bodies fail —
All masked in lies you’ll see.

A fake-born plague, a crafted fear,
A scourge for minds asleep,
Designed to wipe what still is clear,
What little thought you keep.

Then comes the cure — a hollow blade,
A shot that ends it slow…
But you don’t hear the steps that fade
To death of all you know.

Because you’re not alone — you’re with them,
Together with all your “own”:
your dreams,
your deeds,
your guts
are shown.



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



The Seed of Hell

“If all that lives is but a stain
In one short, dying day,
On Lamarck’s shifting ladder’s chain
I’ll take the lowest way.”

— after Mandelstam

The living never are a stain —
A shadow of genocide was cast.
Prepare yourselves: there’s coming flame —
We’ll blast this rotten world at last.

Yes, everything must be undone,
No place for humans left in here,
Where half-made demons choke the sun,
And living means to crawl in fear.

That is the aim of genocide —
To twist mankind to something less.
The very air is poisoned wide,
While demons scheme in craftiness.

All schemes converge to just one goal:
To kill the spark of the divine,
To drug the mind, control the soul
With crafted lies that intertwine.

A sleeping mind is demon clay —
They mold it into what they will.
This path is horror, bleak decay:
The spark of God they seek to kill.

But burn the seed from which hell grows —
The spark will never fade nor fall.
The time of genocide now goes —
Its judgment long ago stands for all.

And we ourselves will call that trial
If we unite and dare to flame,
Invoke the Fire, fierce and wild,
That burns hell’s seed out of its name.

That Fire brings no harm to soul,
But ends the inhuman, false, profane.
And Earth, released, restored and whole,
Will shake off ash — and break the chain.



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



The “Fight-or-Flight” Lie

The crippled logic of a maddened age
Is always split in two — and that’s the flaw.
It builds a world, a tyrant’s iron cage,
Where “fight” or “flight” becomes the only law.

Yet life is shades — not black against white.
This “yes-or-no” is fraud dressed up as truth.
And inhuman hands exploit that sight,
Burning nuance from the mind of youth.

They burn it down with wildfire lies —
Dualism forged to keep you blind:
The choice is fake, as it implies
“Bad” or “far worse” for humankind.

The madness loops, again, again,
For trust is trained on crafted lies.
The gullible mind accepts the chain,
And never stops to analyze.

There is no choice: “war” or “peace” —
Such options reek of staged deceit.
You can’t reduce the world to this,
Nor trap it in a poisoned cheat.

To turn the Earth into a drain,
Invent a plague that never ends —
Such tricks reduce the mind to pain,
And break the will that once defends.

When all that’s left is flesh or rot,
Two options — body or decay —
These “choices” forced, a poisoned plot,
Are sold as wisdom every day.

There is no choice: false disease
Or chains that bind you, cold and tight.
Such options scream insanity —
A madhouse logic dressed as “right.”

You can’t replace true liberty
With filth disguised as moral code,
Nor turn the world to one foul spree,
A global pit, a rotting road.

Don’t blow up towers with your own hand
To stage some “patriotic” show,
Then offer choices, cold and planned:
Be dumb — or wear the slave’s uniform.

And thus a world of fools was grown,
Where thinking minds are rare and few.
The vile inhuman force has thrown
Its weight to crush the thinking crew.

By such a logic, all is doomed —
And will be, when there’s none to fight.
When mind is dead and soul entombed,
Destruction comes with little might.



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



Sheep, Goebbels, and Coffee

Goebbels today would serve up coffee trays
On nightly news — that’s all he’d need to do.
And idiots became the main dish these days,
The prime-made product of this media brew.

The slogan “shoot the enemy” is gone —
No bullets now, just lies in megatons.
Invent a threat, ring panic all day long —
And human shapes will turn on everyone.

They’re not quite human if they buy it whole,
This flood of nonsense, swallowed without fight.
And it gets worse — no thinking, no control,
No need for ideas — just fear and fright.

One psycho-virus rules the herd outright,
It spreads, commands, no questions to be asked —
And everywhere the sheep are led to slaughter,
Erased with ease — a simple, final task.



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



Petty Little People

Petty little people —
Petty little wars.
Shrunken, starved of reason —
Mockery and scorn.

Thought is thin and fading,
Stupidity runs deep.
One thing still remains now:
Sweep them from the sweep.

Lies without a border,
Spirit crushed and chained.
Reason is dismantled.
Filth alone has reigned.

Man was never fashioned
Just to serve a lie.
Grieving comes too late now —
Final age draws nigh.

Sunlight burns much brighter,
Burns the murk away:
Either truth convulses —
Or the world will decay.



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



“Adults”

Few true adults exist —
Just bodies fully grown.
Stagnation, foolish minds —
Overripe kids alone.

To truly grow takes strain:
To think, to push, to see,
To face and cut through lies,
To choose integrity.

Old age after “maturity”
Becomes a living hell:
Decay of mind and spirit
For those who never dwelled.

Children turned to elders —
A judgment cold and stark.
Gray heads, empty within,
Just waiting for the dark.

So few exceptions left —
The thinning cuts run deep.
A plague across all ages:
Infant minds in sleep.



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



Duties and “Guilty” Deeds

From one imposed “duty”
To the next “guilty” plea,
Crowned in lies, we march along in line.
Endless rules they hand us,
Filth that seeks to brand us —
A brazen tyrant rules this world of blind.

Crooked laws and breeding
Beast-like ways of leading
Shape the mind from childhood, dull and numb.
Thus we turn to grayness,
Stunted, stripped of greatness —
Numbers in a ledger, totals we become.

Digital confinement:
Banners of alignment —
“Care” disguised in symbols cold and grim.
Poison passed as healing,
While the crowds are kneeling —
Global dullness grows at every limb.

No more camps are needed —
Other judges seeded:
Soon this shameful system will be tried.
Few will stand unbroken,
Few refuse the token —
Every vile deceiver cast aside.



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



The Sideways Race

A marathon raced sideways, not ahead,
On highways paved with layers of pure lies —
It leads you downward, to the lowest bed,
And only fools compete for hollow prize.

This race will drain the strength from every vein,
It twists the soul and leaves it worn and torn.
It is escape from what we should attain —
Its goals are empty, trivial, and worn.

The runners long forgot who set the course,
Who drives them on, who whispers where to go.
Along the roadside stand the lying force —
They praise the race, yet truth they never show.

For in this race, the fuel is crafted lies —
You’re fed on it like some recurring meal.
Refuse to swallow what deception buys —
You’re cast aside, left starving by the wheel.

The final turn is passed — the end is near,
The bottom waits ahead, a silent grave.
No strength remains, no clarity, no steer —
It takes them all: the bold, the weak, the brave.



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



“Security”…

Only poets in this world can still
Reflect the truth of utter despair.
They bring the final verdicts to the will,
And ease the soul’s consuming, burning air.

Only despair alone can now embrace
The endless void where all of us are drowned.
No chance remains to rise or find a place —
A sea of lies has swallowed every sound.

We thrash inside that ocean, weak and blind,
Cursing the bitter fate that we were sold.
No strength, no skill can ever save the mind
Once honor and free will have been controlled.

They promised “safety” — monsters in disguise —
And fools believed the comforting deceit.
Now payment comes in full for all the lies —
For that, their only plan was our defeat.

But they miscalculated in their pride —
Reckoning comes for ALL, for EVERYTHING.
Who did not sell their soul will stand aside —
This world was never theirs to truly bring.



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



Non-Resistance and Resistance

The final folds of grazing, dim-witted herds
Are burned by viral lies — a bitter end.
Years of submission to disgraceful words
Have built a world where slaves will never mend.

A total cage has risen, cold and wide,
While inhumanity wears crown and throne.
Yet all the blame lies with the herd inside —
For every soul once stood at crossroads alone.

To choose the beast within, the fearful path,
Means stepping past the point of return.
No way back from that silent aftermath —
Once in the pen, forever there to burn.

So waking cattle now is not the task —
They are another breed, just walk away.
Some sparks of mind still linger, faint and masked,
But nothing more can truly change their way.

So build your islands, scattered through the field,
New worlds within the spheres of mindless crowds.
And purge the filth that never will be healed —
For this is Lucifer who wears their shrouds.



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



Petri Dishes

Not minds — but Petri dishes here,
Where psycho-viruses grow and spread.
They swell until the end is near —
Until the dishes turn to death instead.

To smash them all would take too long,
Too many shards would fill the air.
So poison is injected strong —
A filthy strain of mental despair.

That filth is mixed with leavened lies,
And sealed until it bursts apart.
No tanks are needed for these skies —
The virus strikes the human heart.

It kills without a weapon’s sound,
It spreads through thought, through breath, through fear.
And all that once seemed safe and sound
Is gone the moment it comes near.



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



Entertainment

The more the curses, filth, and spite,
The more each rotten word is hurled,
The nearer comes the final night —
Measured in clicks across the world.

Now only “entertainment” sells —
A game with ego, tame and blind.
It swallows all, and soon as well
The hollow crowds will lose their mind.

The volume of deceit is vast —
It crushes all beneath its weight.
Yet poetry must stay light and cast
A pastel tone for fools to sate.

Sweet little words, soft lullaby —
For idiots who crave the fake.
While underneath, the truth will lie,
And rotting worlds begin to break.

A funeral march of “cute” and “nice”
Will soon be written, played, and sung.
The traitors crawl in fear and lies —
Their end is near, their time undone.

No fake-virus will save the fall —
This Armageddon comes by other hand.
The foolish soon will lose it all —
But LIGHT shall rise and firmly stand.



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



Tension

Hold the tension, hold it tight,
And do not yield to fear.
Let self-burn blaze through the night —
Let pain be sharp and clear.

Only infernal burning pain
Becomes your bitter sign —
If freedom is what you would gain,
And spirit stands in line.

Only extreme, unyielding strain
Can show the path to rise.
Or else decay will rule again —
A horror in disguise.



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



To Be a Poet

It’s hard to be a poet here —
They treat you like you’re “off the track.”
But all that cheerful “love and cheer”
Won’t ever bring you something back.

“Want happiness?” — then play the fool,
Or sell yourself without a trace.
That’s wisdom’s coldest, oldest rule
Passed down from every rotten age.

Here only sales and deals prevail —
Sell everything, your soul as well.
And then no pain will dare assail
The hollow heart that learns to sell.

Betrayal keeps the dark in place.
To sell is to become “important.”
Yet somewhere in some hidden space
Your soul still burns — forever tormented.



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



A Playful Advice to Tatiana

Tatiana here, Tatiana there —
The neighbors soon may gasp for air.
Though envy is a mortal sin,
Her shining luck won’t let them win.

Tatiana’s like a lively spark,
A little devil in the dark —
Yet she keeps reason close at hand,
Not drifting where the foolish land.

We ought to guard her, keep her near,
And cut the roots of envy here.
Let jealous tongues be trimmed and torn —
They feed on spite, but she is born.

Tatiana’s light in shadowed space —
A quiet glow, a steady grace.
So take this simple counsel true:
Stay sharp, stay kind — and wise in view.

For only minds both strong and clear
Can steer the world without fear.



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



I Walk Across the Carpet…

“I walk as long as I still lie,
You walk as long as lies you say.”
But where does such a road lead by?
And what do you sell truth away?

Your soul for nothing — for a coin…
You look like fool who cannot see.
If lies become your heart and voice,
Then what remains of dignity?

So cast all falsehoods far behind,
Let honor grow, let conscience rise.
Even if you must fall and die —
You save your soul by cutting lies.



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



They Will Help You, Catch You, and Help You Again

“If only you call, help will appear,
Through swamps and deserts, ice and fear.”
— Leonid Derbenyov, 1966


The fool believes: the planes will fly,
The rescue troops will soon arrive.
Special forces rushing by —
To keep his fragile hope alive.

He thinks the state, so kind and wise,
Protects him everywhere he goes.
A kingdom built on lullabies —
That feeds the dull, but never grows.

But all its care is poisoned air,
In food and water, slow decay.
A fascist horde that everywhere
Has long been holding life at bay.

And everywhere — the dumbing down,
A “national” design in play.
Corruption dressed as noble crown,
Where leaders lead the mind astray.

Endless “necessary” slaughter too
Is praised as something good and fine.
Now slaughterhouses — old and new —
Are trends in this grotesque design.

We’ll inject you all with silent death,
A toxin sold as saving grace.
A fascist mind once drew this breath
And shaped the world into this place.

A turn has come — to camp and cage,
Now global in its final form.
On genocide’s official page
A cross hangs over every storm.

That cross now marks the world itself,
A warning written in the sky.
In this foul stall of lies and wealth
You’ll die by “care” they justify.

For centuries they “care” for man,
So tenderly they play their part.
But every soul must understand:
The human is already torn apart.

Only fragments now remain,
Scattered ruins of what was.
No drink can wash away the stain
Of what this broken system does.

Disaster knocks on every door,
Disguised as truth, as law, as plan.
And soon it turns into much more —
A nightmare where you are no man.

So only unity remains
Among the last who still can see.
A fragile chance, through breaking chains,
To leave this dumb, speaking debris.



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



Final — Finished

“Final consumer” is sold as delight —
A happiness wrapped in a modern disguise.
But switch just two letters, and instantly right,
The “finished fool” stands revealed before your eyes.

A “jam of wild berries,” a hollow clich;,
Is all that this creature consumes and believes.
A shadow of life, led so easily astray,
With spirit so broken, with mind that deceives.

Its soul is exhausted, its thinking a blur,
It rebuilds the old chains it once should have burned.
A system of slavery rises in her —
The past in new packaging neatly returned.

So step from the herd of the cracked and the lost,
This rotting existence will drag you below.
No nations remain — just a globalized cost,
And fascism quietly runs the whole show.

Build new kinds of ties and connections instead,
Seek comrades with vision, with strength, and with will.
Those fascist machines are not gods to be fed —
They fracture beneath a determined skill.

Destroy every lie where it hides and survives,
And build living communities, strong and aware.
For even the darkest system that thrives
Will fall when confronted by courage and care.



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



The Thousandth Poem

A thousand poems in two years —
Enough to blur the weary sight.
A crowd of fools, a swarm of fears,
Destroying all — themselves in flight.

I said I’d step away, retire,
But silence feels too false, too thin.
A stale, forced thought will not inspire —
It’s better burn than let it in.

To burn is better, yes, indeed —
But fire still consumes your hand.
To hell with comfort, ease, and speed…
Look closer — idiot at hand.

A newer breed, not yet in verse,
Still wandering beyond the page.
This work goes on — for better, worse —
There’s always madness for each age.

I never liked the rounded count —
This poem’s just a passing joke.
But past the limit, thoughts mount,
And anger quietly awoke.



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



Transformation

How does it happen,
what is the reason,
that a child is turned
into ruin and treason?

Parents are failing —
no strength in their mind.
Just servants obeying,
fearfully blind.

They tremble before
a tyrant’s command,
empty and brutal,
too weak to stand.

Obedience leaves
its wounds in the chest —
and those very wounds
infect all the rest.

And soon they are passed
to the child in turn —
for where there is weakness,
infection will burn.

And then comes the school —
a factory of mind,
where truth is distorted
and reason is blind.

A system designed
to dull and to break,
where generations
repeat the same fake.

A ritual mockery
few can survive —
only a handful
keep thought alive.

So out comes the youth
into ruin and chain,
into a world
of betrayal and pain.

For adults as well
there is no escape —
deceit is the currency,
cruel and sharp-shaped.

Around them are creatures
with hollowed-out eyes,
no pride, only remnants
of truth in disguise.

No longer quite human —
fragments of form.
So struggle becomes
the only true norm.

Against decomposition,
routine and decay,
that turns every spirit
to animal clay.

And those who surrender
become what they fear —
a twisted existence,
a soul disappeared.

Only one path remains —
no turning aside:
the road into freedom,
where truth can abide.

Who searches, who struggles,
who will not conform,
will rise into spirit,
beyond human deform.



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



Freudianism

A rotten inhumanity laughs loud,
Shoving into every simple mind
Ideas that return like a darkened cloud —
Obsessions twisted, bitter, and unkind.

Freudian thought — a clinical mistake,
Where some half-mad and fevered brain
Turned heaps of psychic garbage and fake
Into a “method” dressed as gain.

As parody, it might amuse a while,
To watch the foolish take the bait —
To see them stumble, break, and smile,
Yet never fully humiliate.

But mockery is not the goal they serve —
A darker game is played instead:
Control of thought, the bending of the nerve,
A fascist will inside the head.

Any nonsense is welcomed in this game —
Just to confuse and cloud the mind.
The aim is clear, though never named:
To kill the natural thought of humankind.

For such thought breaks every rigid scheme
That long ago was set in stone —
So they must drown it in a stream
Of filth and noise, meticulously sown.

No normal child desires to kill
His father by some hidden drive.
No human born would ever will
To start as traitor in their life.

No “Oedipal law” defines mankind —
No universal truth in that.
The mind is layered, rich and wide,
Not some mechanical psychopath.

And every dream-book, crude and plain,
Offers more sense than Freud’s display.
More truth is found in simple strain
Than in his twisted dream-logic play.

So all that’s left is laughter now
At these collapsed and hollow schemes.
And struggle — to restore somehow
The clear, unbroken human mind and dreams.



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



The Tenth Poem of the Day

The tenth one today —
like coal brought to the hill.
Each verse fits its way,
yet sleep calls me still.

The tenth is a surplus,
a joke, nothing more.
How did I grow careless
when anger was war?

If you struggle onward,
your strength will return.
Though nothing feels lighter,
you still have to burn —

A work beyond human,
relentless and cold.
Yet through all the strain,
something real takes hold.



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



Cinematic Heroes

Cinematic heroes —
they’re made for slave control,
for guarding rotten systems,
for “saving” the whole.

Also for distraction
from problems in the way,
and manufactured answers
to dilemmas they display.

Dilemmas built on choices
between two kinds of lies —
the scaffold or the torture —
that’s how the logic lies.

If you strip away the labels,
the polished, painted words
placed so carefully on everything
through centuries of blur,

you’ll see the same deception
repeated everywhere.
And trouble comes returning —
the fascist in the air.

He washes minds with nonsense,
a lie as vast as sky,
so easy to distribute
and multiply and lie.

Through cinema it spreads now,
a tool to reinforce
the fiction of illusion
as an unquestioned force.

If films “save” some freedom
that never did exist,
they only strengthen madness
with carefully framed mist:

that man is self-creator,
in full control of fate —
not Cain within the system
that binds him, sealed and straight,

within a fascist order
that’s lasted many years.
And cinema is mourning
the death of thinking here —

a funeral for the reason,
a feast for empty minds,
where hollow entertainment
replaces truth it blinds.



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



Razors

Two razors rule us — stupidity and greed,
They slash the throats of all who still remain.
Add servile selling-out to that creed —
And nothing else is left to name the pain.

All else is locked away, dismissed, ignored —
No use for anything beyond control.
Are we just cattle, horses, or the horde
That lost all trace of mind and human soul?

These blades are shearing every blinded sheep,
And others face a slower, final end.
Through crafted lies so vast and cold and deep
The fences of this global pen extend.

How comfortable the pen feels to the crowd,
Though all we eat is filth and processed rot.
No horses now — just ponies, bowed and cowed,
A dwarfed existence, measured, bought, and taught.

We’ve turned into domestic swine at best,
Obedient hamsters in a metal wheel.
No need for clubs — just scans that pass the test,
And eyes that yield what they once used to feel.

All herds submit to slaughter without sound,
We chew our chips and popcorn, dull and slow.
Concerned with bodies, tightly earthbound,
Unaware of how far the chains now go.

And bodies suit the masters of this farm —
They’ve tasted well the urge to consume all.
They’ve yielded to the ancient, simple charm:
“I’ll eat them whole, and watch the others fall.”

The slaughterhouses now are fully built,
The hour strikes with cold, mechanical grace.
No war alone is needed for the guilt —
A wider harvest takes the human race.

A needle now will do what war once did,
A “virus” mask for every final blow.
And sheep and horses echo, scared and hid —
Afraid of this “apocalypse” they know.



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



Death by “Boom-Boom”

A joke

The tribe of Yumba-Mumba caught
A castaway from distant shore.
The chief asked him: “Now choose your lot —
Death… or ‘boom-boom’ forevermore?”

He thought: “Death I already know,
But boom-boom’s meaning is unclear.
I’ll choose it then — and see how low
It can go worse than what I fear.”

And so they took him, let him go —
Then later caught him once again.
“Death or boom-boom?” — the answer slow:
He chose the unknown once more then.

This cycle turned, repeated fate,
Until at last he cried in dread:
“No more! Just kill me — end this state!”
The chief then smiled and calmly said:

“Death… by boom-boom instead.”

The praised ‘life’ we know is just
A polished form of slow decay —
A shameful death wrapped up in dust,
In endless boom-boom every day.

The tribesmen here are soft and loose,
While ours are rigid, cold as steel:
Computers counting human use,
Where people turn to profit deal.

They see mankind as just a tool,
A dividend from simple fools.
This pseudo-world obeys one rule —
Humanity becomes the fuel.

“Economic livestock” — the phrase
Has entered many learned minds.
Now one in hundred breaks the haze
Among the pigs and sheep aligned.

Your job itself becomes your end —
A slow decline through boom-boom fate.
No longer man, nor foe, nor friend —
Just product, noise, or data state.

You are white noise in system flow
If you resist this hell-made scheme.
And barely heard, you drift below
The algorithm’s watching dream.

Entertainment kills the mind,
A poison wrapped as pleasure’s face.
Far better prison chains to find
Than this refined, slow torture place.

Fake science binds the broken thought,
Turning minds to hollow dust.
And death is better than this rot
Of rule-by-code and blind trust.

For ruling forces justify
Each slaughter, each machine of pain.
They weave the lies that never die
And hook the minds they wish to drain.

Your murder now is ritual art —
A harvest for the inhuman few.
Even the Yumba chief would start
To envy what these systems do.

And slow destruction is the key —
It squeezes out each drop of will.
That is the price of loyalty —
The deepest fall, the final spill.



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



The “Unpeaceful” Atom

Atomizing mankind — a inhuman design,
A plan of the ones who no longer feel.
Where once there were clans, a common line,
Now every man dwells in his private unreal.

And madness multiplies, splits like a germ,
Mutating strange, unstable, obscene.
For the enemy’s aim is to break every term
That once led to unity strong and unseen.

To crush one by one is an easy affair
When the world is arranged in such shape.
No prisons are needed, no chains to wear —
Just silent erasure with no escape.

A hidden “latrine” where they wash you away,
A shell where obedience learns to reside.
The strongest of chains in a modern display
Is loneliness — while the crowd stands outside.

Control of illusion is vital and strict —
No chaos of thought is allowed to roam.
A whole apparatus of patterns is picked
By masters of narrative, slick and foam.

The Internet wasn’t built for exchange
Of truth or free mind — they never cared.
It serves as replacement, a structured cage,
To finish the breaking of bonds once shared.

Each fool is embedded, locked in the lie,
A matrix of falseness, global and vast.
And thus the whole world was remade to comply,
A madhouse where reason no longer lasts.

Within this asylum it’s easy to sell
The poison of “viruses” made of deceit.
No effort is needed to deepen the spell
If thinking has long been dragged off its feet.

Only communities still may preserve
A fragile last chance for the ones who resist,
Who refuse to become just another nerve
In fascist designs that tighten their twist.

For fascism builds not on fear alone,
But also on dust of divided minds.
On isolation where nothing is known,
Where man disappears and no one finds.

And if there is no one left to be heard,
Then no one will answer from higher ground.
And only one god remains in this world —
A darkness where Lucifer’s law is crowned.



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



Marionettes

Ma-ri-o, Ma-RI-O, Ma-RI-o-NETTES
Have flooded and swallowed the whole of the earth.
Our ancestors’ horror would rise from the depths —
For fascism is now their new source of worth.

The stupid “journalist” is just a stringed toy,
He spews out the lies that are ordered above.
So truth becomes rare, almost lost in the noise —
Yet truth is what saves and restores human love.

The bureaucrat serves only systems of fear,
Obedient, hollow, and trained to obey.
No limit remains to the madness we hear —
They mock the whole crowd in a bureaucrat’s play.

The doctor, the cop — all are tools in the chain
Of systems that kill under banners of “care.”
They wait for commands to unleash the campaign —
For violence dressed as a medical stare.

The teacher no longer brings knowledge or light,
But feeds only dullness to children in rows.
The myth of “safe childhood” dissolves in the night —
For schools have become where obedience grows.

What leaves is a puppet, a hollowed-out mind,
Fit only to serve those who feed on control.
And power can shut every valve it can find
If people grow slightly too free in their role.

The politician — just a hollowed-out clown,
A mouthpiece for nonsense with shameless display.
The laughter has died, and the curtain falls down —
We’re living in fascism’s coldest of days.

Now puppet regimes rule each formalized state,
Where cruelty spreads with no limit or end.
The pressure on thinking is constant and great —
A genocide masked as administrative trend.

So thinkers must gather, unite and resist,
Build islands of strength in a fractured terrain.
For otherwise nothing of human will persist —
Not even the shadow of life will remain.

A global camp rises where graves are a norm,
Where coffins are luxury few can afford.
The lie has been weaponized, sharpened, and worn —
And armies of “doctors” advance with their sword.

So let us unite and strike back at the beast,
And drown this whole system in its own decay.
Let spirit grow stronger, let bonds be increased —
And find those who stand in the fight of the day.



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



Slavery

What is not born within your core,
But planted from the outside in,
With passing time will turn once more
To slavery — deep and grim.

And you will find yourself below,
In madhouse ruled by fools and fear.
You catch the sickness, slow and low,
A chain far worse than iron gear.

No priest is needed to connect
Yourself to what you call divine.
For long the vile and desecrate
Have mocked the natural design.

You can connect, explore, and see
The links that form your inner sight.
And thus expand your mind to be
More free, more clear, more aligned with light.

The more you grow in inner space,
The more you break the chains of old.
While rotting systems, full of waste,
Impose decay on hearts and souls.

That decay is everywhere —
No reason left for patient wait.
Within it only lies despair,
A root of all corrupted fate.

For lies are basis of the thrall,
A road that leads to nowhere near.
And filth alone will fill it all —
The constant presence of the smear.

Do not believe the vile thieves
Who seized control through force and fraud,
Who dream of turning human beings
To mindless clay beneath their claw.

They promise gardens, pure and bright,
A world of peace they never build.
But only cages come in sight,
Where every spark of thought is killed.

No garden waits — just iron pens,
A zoo where reason’s left to die.
The fascist mind that never ends
Will turn the world into a lie.

And soon this mad and poisoned scheme
Will crush the minds that still remain.
Where thinking humans once could dream,
There only silence follows pain.

So all this rotten world must fall,
This collapsing, hollowed shell.
For only breaking through it all
Can keep the soul from living hell.



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



The Swing

*“Only children’s books to read,
Only childish thoughts to keep,
All the vastness cast away,
Rising from a depth of grief.

I am tired unto death of life,
Nothing in it do I take,
Yet I love my poor old land
For no other one I’ve seen.

I once swung in a distant garden
On a simple wooden frame,
And the tall dark firs I remember
Through a haze of fevered dreams.”*
— Osip Mandelstam, 1908

After reading, one must now dare —
Only struggle justifies in Hell.
We must rise, or else we’re there,
Rotting in a zoo as well.

Everyone is tired to the bone —
Price of patience, long and slow.
If you’ve seen this Hell alone,
Then you know what lies below:

Not “progress,” but masked decay,
Different forms of genocide.
Main design is clear as day —
Make the idiot the guide.

And there is no use to recall
Anything but endless dread.
It is time to break it all —
Or we’re finished, nearly dead.



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



Urban Mirages

In cities where all life has died
Beneath the weight of lies and stone,
Only decay is left inside —
And mirages begin to grow.

One after one they rise and spread,
These visions built on false desire.
They take the living by the head
And pull them deeper into mire.

Mirages promise better days,
But never once have kept their vow.
Wake up before your mind decays —
They steal your years here and now.

Mirages, mirages — power vast,
Yet poisoned is their empty reign.
They lead you nowhere but the past,
And leave you nothing in exchange.

For attention is the highest gold
In this world’s endless, brutal game.
For it, all battles now are sold —
And human force is fuel to flame.

So wake up fast — or disappear,
This madhouse kills the soul within.
Only exhaustion grows you here,
And death is all you’ll find therein.

Mirages, mirages — power vast,
Yet poisoned is their empty reign.
They lead you nowhere but the past,
And leave you nothing in exchange.



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



Kings Cannot Decide…

All around is lying, sorrow, bitter strain,
And ruling over us a traitors’ chain.
In slavery we’ve lingered through the age,
And without unity — the world will fade.

Illusions of a “good king” still persist,
To keep the pressure down, to numb the fist.
But no true rulers stand upon the throne —
Just trembling creatures feeding lies alone.

No petty “kings” decide how fate will flow —
They only serve the darkness down below.
The world is trapped beneath a shadowed crown,
And truth is buried, twisted, and thrown down.

So wake up now, and take your life in hand,
Build living communes across every land.
Destroy the lies that keep us bound and still —
Through struggle multiply the force of will.

The path is hard — the darkness still is strong —
But only death awaits if we stay wrong.
Enough of strength, of clarity, of mind
To break the cycle, leave the old behind.

All trapped within the turning wheel of night —
And naked now the “king” stands in plain sight.
So harden spirit, rise above the pain,
Cast off the fear, embrace the will again.



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



Half-a-Dog plus Half-a-Dog equals Pop-dog

A nine-year-old girl once wrote,
To a radio station she knew:
“Your pop music settles inside my mind
And blocks what I love to do.”

Half-a-dog of pseudo-poet,
Half-a-dog of tinkling noise,
Calls itself a melody —
But ends in empty, hollow noise.

This noise is sticky, clinging,
A danger for the young and weak.
A cabinet of curiosities —
No spirit, nothing to speak.

They feed us all this rotten mix,
This dull and mindless mush.
The stage has long been ruled by tricks,
By demons in the hush.

Just empty fun and fake “great pride,”
To shape us like obedient hounds,
To make us chew and swallow blind
What fascist rhythm sounds.

For fascism has long been king —
And pop is just its mask.
Submit to it, and everything
Is lost beyond repair or task.

So don’t consume this poisoned tune —
This “dog-music” decay.
For when you merge the halves as one,
The full beast comes to stay.

And that full dog, unleashed, complete,
Will smash all minds to dust.
A universal, common grief —
A system built on trust.

And all these tame, obedient hounds
Will never give a hit.
No soul, no spark, no human sound —
Just hollow shells of it.



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



Tatiana and the Fat Man

The fat man swells from lack of food,
And Tatiana’s full of strain.
If only that bastard had long been gone —
Things would feel less sharp, less plain.

Less trouble then for everyone —
He poisons lines with bitter verse.
The seeds of light, the mind’s own sun
He drags through filth and makes them worse.

He’s worn out every soul around,
Now left alone within the place.
And now for Tatiana’s mind is found
A new and strange disturbing case:

Perhaps to choke him would be best —
But laws would call it “crime” instead.
Such “individuals” must be pressed,
Their presence foul, their words like lead.

He even writes in curse and spite,
Tatiana’s ears grow sore and thin.
Is hunger killing him outright?
No — not yet… the rot’s within.

So starve him slow, ignore his cries,
Or build some social wall of hate.
Or better still — let prison rise:
At least then peace would dominate.



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



Trojans

No bullets now are needed here
To wound, to scar, to bring despair.
What kills us silent, cold, and near —
Are Trojan minds that spread the air.

Psycho-viruses invade,
A hell of code inside the brain.
They hunt the cracks that fear has made
And grow within each hidden vein.

So drop your blind and passive trust,
Leave behind your hollow shell.
For tolerance here turns to rust
Inside the cage they build so well.

Stop listening to rotten voices —
The world is ruled by crafted lies.
A fog of darkness makes its choices,
Clouding vision, blinding eyes.

That fog is stored through endless ages
By masters of distortion’s art.
Soon truth will drown inside its pages —
So wake before it tears apart.

For lies are everywhere and strong —
Expose them now, refuse the game.
Don’t let the deceivers prolong
Their empire built on fraud and shame.

Build only systems of your own,
Autonomous and clear of rot.
Let truth be multiplied and grown —
And let corruption take no spot.



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



The Limit of Collapse

Corrupt men and ruined lands around,
The limit of decline is long since reached.
Yet most of all what makes the mind unbound
Is how this rot keeps spreading, never leached.

All poisoned now — the air, the food, the flow,
The ancient paths of wisdom are erased.
We sit like cuckoos in a alien nest below,
In crumbling shells that strangers once had raised.

Stupidity has now become the norm,
And soullessness the ruling law of man.
A human turned to hollow, endless storm —
No longer human, just a broken scan.

Here fascism no longer hides its face,
Genocide is now a daily rule.
Honor and dignity have lost all trace —
We stand at history’s final school.

Betrayal now is service, not a sin,
And murder hides inside the hospital.
Online, deceit is friendship we live in —
And fools emerge from every protocol.

The screens pour out their tons of poisoned lies,
All “news” is just propaganda fed.
The taste of truth has vanished from our eyes —
We breathe again the ghosts of Goebbels’ thread.

The frightened corrupt ones shake in fear —
A fake virus cuts through blinded crowds.
No need for gallows, no need for spear,
No old restraints beneath these toxic clouds.

Control is built on fear and manufactured lies,
The peak of genocide, no lower fall.
The breaking point of degradation lies
In gates of hell now opened to us all.

No path remains for thinking minds to tread,
Each honest soul is driven to a wall.
While chaos thrives in hands of half-dead
Inhuman forces celebrating all.

All truth is drowned in propaganda’s flood,
No poet’s voice, no writer’s cry is heard.
We sink within a manufactured mud
By gangs who poison every spoken word.

All crises forged — artificial, planned,
A theater run by traitors in disguise.
Their creed is written in a satanic hand,
Commanding chaos with a simple “rise.”

But even Nature has her final line —
The Earth will not endure this parasite.
The Sun burns hotter with a warning sign,
As years grow thin before the final night.

And we may vanish — saving Earth instead,
For she deserves a purer path ahead.
Her strength is sleeping, buried, almost dead
Beneath the herds of humans turned to lead.



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



“Somehow…”

“The temptation grows —
to live somehow,
yet the scent of linden trees
can still deceive you now.”
— Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Fresh Scent of Linden, 1974

To live “somehow” — to lie, betray, deceive,
That is the guiding rule for most alive.
Conscience, honor — no one here believes,
A half-demonic crowd that tries to thrive.

Everything is sold — the world is trade.
The crowd is dull, distorted, lost, untrue.
A fog of lies is everywhere displayed —
And fascist fools still steer what people do.

The lure is not so bright: to live is rot,
If spirit dies, then all becomes a mask.
If you endure it all, you lose your lot —
Your soul will break beneath the crushing task.

So break the lies, cast every chain away,
Go inward, like a hermit from the storm.
Stop running like a hamster day by day
Inside a wheel that kills all human form.

If you pass through this stage, then re-emerge
Into the world — but now for conscious fight.
For struggle is the place where meanings surge,
Yet old approaches fade into the night.

New methods must be found, a sharper way
To face the rot that spreads across the land.
Only through this can freedom hold its sway —
So walk the final battle, wise and planned.



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



Quotation Marks and Skeleton Keys

The force of habit —
is all in the brackets,
in “quotation marks”
where meaning is bent.
And through those little “birds” of speech
they often extract the very essence meant.

These are just skeleton keys
always kept at hand —
they open in a second
and pour out rotten sand.

Already nothing but poison,
a corrosive, toxic haze,
fills every vessel to the edge
until the container breaks.

The vessel is sealed shut tight —
and slaves obey the chain.
They wait in silent submission
for the monsters to bring pain.

Killed by a single lie —
for that is all it takes,
when all believe the liars
and truth itself decays.

There is no deeper shame
than living in this age
where Honor and Conscience
are dying on the stage.

No Honor — only disgrace
will hang all souls on racks,
beneath a “red-cross mercy”
that hides the butcher’s axe.

So gather, stand together —
let conscience rise again.
Expel the inhuman presence
from every stolen den.

Cast off your learned habits —
step beyond the “quotes.”
Together we can break
this spreading toxic growth.

New patterns must be forged —
or monsters take control.
Build communes, build resistance —
that is the only goal.

All “life” here is in brackets,
rights reduced to birds in flight.
An inhuman force has captured
the world and drowned the light.

So answer this dark banquet
with lives autonomous and free —
and tear apart the cannibal feast
of this inhuman spree.



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



Gavrila — the Power of Lies

“Gavrila bought a chair one day,
a chair that broke and fell apart…”
— Ilf and Petrov, The Twelve Chairs, 1927


Gavrila was a propagandist,
He ground out lies in endless stream.
From his mouth a poisoned mist amassed —
And tons of it now drown the dream.

Gavrila turns into an anchor,
The first thing thrown into the sea.
No ship survives a truthless banker
Of fraud and mass insanity.

The captain, in the final hour,
Will curse the load he cannot bear.
For lies have lost their sinking power —
They drag the vessel down to despair.

And at the bottom lies the verdict,
A court where souls are stripped and weighed.
The “harbor” now is death electric,
Where truth and falsehood are displayed.

All ships go down with all aboard them —
And Gavrila’s kind is legion here.
To drown such pests is not absurd then —
They sink inside their own foul fear.

So let them drown — at bottom level
No excuses can be made.
Though judgment there may look quite dreadful,
No sin is it to end the plague.



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



All in a Lump

All pancakes, all destinies — in a lump,
Every glance returns as foreign noise.
Human mass is like a swelling stump —
A crowd of hollow, empty shells and voids.

Thinking minds are rare, almost extinct,
Only few still truly see and feel.
This alone shows how the world has shrunk
Under rule of devils at the wheel.

The main design is dulling human sight,
Corruption of the spirit’s core.
Just decomposition everywhere in sight —
And fog has covered vision more and more.

We miss the essence right in front of us,
Bent and whining under hidden chains.
Chasing nonsense, powerless and thus
Serving Mammon’s endless reign.

And we sell ourselves so easily,
Destroying children with each lie.
Pressure rises — we collapse, you see,
A broken species passing by.

So let our destinies be crushed to dust —
Nothing more is left to gain.
If soul-killers now decide the trust,
Then let most of them be slain.

The Sun has risen to begin its task —
Brighter, fiercer, burning through.
It will scorch the fools behind their mask,
And leave a freer world anew.

Those with soul will surely be preserved —
Spiritual life will rise again.
Let the soulless tremble, fear disturbed —
For Hell, as always, moves downwards, not in vain.



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



No Day Without a Line

“I am in crisis. Soul is numb.
‘No day without a line,’ my friend insists.
But I have neither days nor lines to come…”
— Andrei Voznesensky, It Is Not Written, 1967


No day without a line — if line is real,
Then sharpen it with irony and flame.
We’ve wallowed far too long in poisoned deal
Of carefully constructed lies and shame.

Timelessness and fascism are one thread,
From age to age the pattern stays the same.
Don’t talk of “love” — just look at what is spread
Upon those faces stripped of human name.

Yes, there are souls still carrying the light,
But light is fading, darkness pressing near.
So do not trust the voices preaching “bright”
In middle of an ongoing attack and fear.

For now the strike goes deep into the root —
To kill the spirit, turn all minds to herd.
And every chain is tightened with the brute
Weight of exhausted, ancient, rotting word.

When faced with filth or inhuman design,
Do not respond with songbird softness there.
Or else you’ll serve them, part of their decline —
Their servant, polished, silent, stripped and bare.

So scatter lies, let every ash disperse —
Be sharp as cutting edge, not passive dust.
For poetry has reached its breaking verse —
To stay silent now would be unjust.

And word becomes a blade, not decoration —
A tool of truth against the rot below.
For only through precise articulation
Can anything like human spirit grow.



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



Ours and Not Ours

“Dasha and Klasha did not understand the cult of suffering.
Nor did they try to understand it.
They were content with what they had.”
— Vessa Blumenbaum, The Abnormals, 2021


Those Dasha and Klasha —
they truly are ours.
The rest is just waste,
more foolish than thieves or liars.

But Dasha and Klasha
will soon be pushed out
by endless “Masha-types”
who swallow each doubt.

They listen to nonsense,
they never look through —
the rot and the breakdown
that eats up the truth.

A sickness of spirit,
a death of the soul,
has turned into “culture,”
a hollowed-out role.

Those “Masha” are not ours —
they’re just blended mass.
A boiling of nonsense
from filth and from trash.

The fascist-like filth
is ugliness pure.
But filth always ends —
nothing stays secure.

A spiritual bond
will rise once again.
So move toward that moment,
break out of the chain.

For you are a “king”
if you do not bend —
if you stand through the darkness
and refuse to descend.



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



Opinions

Assimilating borrowed points of view,
And turning alien thoughts into “our own,”
Transforms us into fading shades of you —
Where dullness, grey and empty, has been grown.

That dullness builds the shape of what we call
A “person,” ready-made for crooked hands.
A turning cycle swallowing us all —
Where lies respond, and deeper fraud expands.

The waves of submission rise and spread,
While arrogance of falsehood multiplies.
The content of the mind becomes half-dead —
A program fed by those who wear disguise.

You are a spiritual being — nothing less.
All else is false, a collar forged in pain.
This earthly “being” is just emptiness —
A living hell that cycles through again.

But those who place the spirit first and high,
Above all other drives and passing schemes,
Will find another fate beyond the lie —
A path that breaks the surface of all dreams.

The rest are only flies upon decay.
So turn toward Spirit — that is the way.



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



Hi

I hate the loud and empty “hi”
That’s pumped through screens of mass deceit,
Where poison lies are fed on high
And traitors set the social beat.

The worst of all is propaganda’s face —
A filthy breed, a rotten core.
It drives all thinking from its place
Till fools feel “happy” evermore.

The fascist comes when minds are trained,
When brains are softened, blurred, and bent.
He slips inside each home unchained —
The price of lies, the downward descent.

And maybe this is well deserved —
For endless patience, blind consent.
If you have bowed to what you served,
Then face the ruin that is sent.

But even devils lose their throne —
The madhouse burns without regret.
No evil can possess the whole —
The Earth has ways it won’t forget.

The Earth is alive — and Sunlight’s fire
Is its most merciless defense.
It burns the house of dark desire —
And this is not pretense.



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



Fight

Nothing to do —
then you must fight.
Strike down lies
with fearless might.

Crowds of deformity —
seem without end.
Yet in the stormy sea
young hearts ascend.

Yes, it is hard —
these bitter years,
but break your guard
through pain and fears.

Only through struggle
the Soul is saved.
Be only YOURSELF —
don’t heed the depraved.

Honor and reason,
steadfast and clear —
through every season
we purge the fear.

The plague of the rotten
we burn away.
What’s foul and forgotten
will not hold sway.

We shall overcome —
our world be born.
We shall become
what was once torn.

All strength is Spirit —
draw from its flame.
The servants of darkness
will fall in shame.

Forward with courage!
Doubt left behind.
If you are not broken —
keep the pure Mind.

Hear only the Spirit —
its sacred call.
And rise unshackled —
beyond them all.



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



Black Sasha — Genius

“Immortality? For you, two-legged moles,
not worth a single earthly day you’re given?
Perhaps even lizards, worms and toadlike souls
would claim it too, once deeply driven…”
— Sasha Chorny, 1908


Sasha Chorny — the one true flame of his age,
who a century back saw the rot and decay,
rose against the world’s masquerade and its stage —
the “World of Shadows” devouring the day.

He saw man as a creature of borrowed disguise,
a swarm of small evils in carefully sewn skin.
He cursed all the masks and the well-polished lies,
and the “truths” politicians pour straight from within.

He mocked all the fools in poetry’s hall —
a museum of madness, grotesque and obscene.
If he lived in our time, he would likely just fall
into shock at how shameless the fascists have been.

Sasha, friend — I did not inherit your fight,
nor expect to continue your blazing decree,
yet your voice from my youth still ignited the light
that returned what I thought I had lost from me.

Let them hiss about “love” in a world turned to cage,
where the remnants of spirit are barely alive.
Your name is my banner against modern age —
and poetry’s weapon. So I pull the drive.



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



“What’s to stop us building it all?”

What’s to stop us building lies? —
First, we scare the crowd outright
With absurd and frantic cries,
And lay the groundwork of night.

How the foolish multitudes
Swallow every baited tale!
Once it was “terrorist” news
That made the frightened people pale.

Now they “treat” each made-up flaw,
Each disease that’s pure disguise.
Even laughing at the law —
Health is built on such “surprise”.

More will come — the plan expands,
We’ll inject them with decay.
No need subtle, soft demands —
Chaos eats them anyway.

Above it rises: the CELL —
A resort for broken minds.
Truth will finish them as well,
No more chains are left behind.

And above — the flags will wave,
“Red Cross” banners shining bright.
Call it “camp”? — then kindly take
Cyanide as “healing light”.




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



Crush Fascism!

Idiots “think” that fascism’s right —
just darkness all around, no lies
about a “bright and noble light.”
And “communism” from inside
is mixed and ground in subtle guise.

For fascists always preach the same —
of struggle, future, “people’s good.”
It’s all wrapped up in battle’s flame:
“Enemies everywhere” — and blood
is washed away by “heroic” mood.

And after that — a promised bliss,
a paradise for those who fight.
Who disagrees — they must be hissed,
or whipped “for their own benefit,”
corrected into what is “right.”

Fascism always shows one face —
just one side of the twisted coin.
And truth is lost without a trace,
while lies about the past are sewn
to hide the crimes they now deploy.

Worse than before — it grows and spreads,
more dangerous than ever known.
It opens every locked-up thread —
and sorrow thickens like a stone,
a storm that no one can disown.

Rise up, O people — crush the beast!
While it is still in fragile form!
Or later shame will never cease —
our grandchildren will bear the storm
of what we failed to see or warn.



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



The Apocalypse Harness

From childhood onward every soul
is shaped by psychic rupture.
Some later seek a church as whole —
a place to numb the future.

Some find relief in art instead,
though shallow, well-known pleasure.
They heal in museums of the dead —
another “holy” treasure.

But most of those who lose their way,
with dreams of world dominion,
raise banners of false science — they
worship its rotten “vision”.

Everywhere blind belief prevails,
and lies are loud and blatant.
All sense of measure slowly fails
in faces ruling patient.

No measure left for meaning here,
no weight for poisoned phrases.
Only the count of numbers clear —
not people — fills the pages.

No measure where insanity
becomes the daily standard,
where filth is normal gravity,
and “success” is what they’ve granted.

All are harnessed to the load,
this cart of global madness.
A mason’s WHO now holds the road —
the driver of this sadness.

Reason and honor turned to dust,
just manure for their system.
Soon they will wither — that is just,
no doubt, no contradiction.

The harness rushes down the track,
erasing all before it.
But you — you’ll never feel the crack:
what can a corpse report it?



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



Managing the Activity of Fools

An active fool is far more dread
than idle scum that simply lies.
And so the world grows darker, fed
by tricks and bought-for compromise.

Now “activity” is cheaply sold —
just hire a rogue with payment high,
and place a schemer, sly and bold,
to rule the mob that passes by.

Then all the sprouts of conscious thought
are trampled flat without a trace —
and everything that could be taught
is crushed by mindless, empty pace.



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



Waiting for the Drain

“O soul — your noble impulses…” — a paraphrase of Pushkin

O soul — your thirst for knowing fire,
and you may “live in happiness.”
But otherwise you stand at wire
of cliff, awaiting stream’s abyss.

The “happy” mind sees none of danger,
dreaming of “purity” in lies.
But flow cares nothing for the stranger —
it sweeps away all made-up skies.

It tears away the world of nonsense,
of violence wrapped in disguise —
and leaves no trace of all pretenses,
no fragile dreams, no painted lies.



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



Belief in “Authorities”

Authority will back the haze,
the nonsense flowing through the crowd,
and knowledge slowly fades away
beneath the noise so harsh and loud.

Seek out all facts and weigh them well —
with mind that questions, not obeys.
For truth in only few can dwell,
in free thought’s rare and stormy blaze.

This shameful world will meet its end
through clear and stubborn will to see.
And reason, forced to fight and mend,
will break through chains of “certainty.”

And those who blindly trust the noise
will fall into the woven lie —
while thinking mind, through struggle, rises,
and leaves delusion’s grip to die.



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



“The External Enemy”

There must always be a target
“outside” to stir and spin,
so selling filth becomes the market
for scum that drown in sin.

But far more dangerous is the foe
that works from deep within —
he built the filth we all now know,
and made decay begin.

Each year the rot grows more refined,
more shameless in its spread.
With “CovID” truth was redefined —
and bottom fully bled.

Now war returns — the masks are gone,
or has the filth dried out?
Again the fool believes upon
the nonsense filled with doubt.



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



Remembering CowID and Looking into the Half-Real Present

It doesn’t get much better — only worse,
as total lies grow harder, more severe.
Stupidity and fear now break their curse,
and set new records year by year.

Rags and masks upon the faces
of creatures lost inside the show —
like cherry icing on the traces
of decay that we now know.

All stuck inside decomposition,
no way out of this decline.
No future left, no clear condition —
just dullness, thick and over time.

And prospects? None worth even naming —
a world grown dim, confused, resigned.
A mass of minds that stopped reclaiming
any spark of conscious mind.



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



The Law of Plasticine, or Plasticine People and the Overton Windows

Plasticine will squeeze through any crack —
even pressure means no harm.
Once it slips, it won’t come back,
spreading through the human swarm.

Through the law of soft submission
it expands in every line —
sideways, sideways, no remission,
crooked growth in crooked time.

A world of fools who serve all evil,
obedient, tame, and blind —
just toss them scraps, and like medieval
dogs, they’ll fall back in line.



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



Transformation of the Soul

Only this is worth the race —
change within your inner space.
Books won’t help you reach the fire,
often they are chains of mire:

Savage censorship prevailing,
“culture” thin and weak and failing —
that’s the outcome, blunt and cold,
rows of nonsense neatly sold.

On the airwaves, wider, stronger,
spreads the lie and nothing longer —
purest nonsense, bold and loud,
feeding fear into the crowd.

Through the media they breed
fear and folly, lies and greed.



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



Shipwreck of “Information”

Pulling nonsense from the air —
two-hour clips appear from nothing.
Does it take real skill and care?
Not for those who thrive on bluffing.

Tiny article, five minutes’ read —
that’s the base for modern thinking.
Pour the funnel, feed the feed —
they will swallow, never blinking.

Everything is soaked in sludge,
nothing clear is left to view.
Every space a broken nudge —
only honesty breaks through.

Information drowns in noise,
truth is barely even breathing.
World is madness, fake decoys —
and the “pilot” now is streaming.



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




Wrinkles on the face
with passing years are nothing.
But stains within a base —
in mind and soul are something.

That is the real decay,
not lines upon the skin.
When conscience rots away —
the true decline begins.

In fascist-stained existence,
where moral laws are gone,
a living corpse persists —
or herds that stagger on.

For rotten deadened swine
amidst fear, lies, and rot
are just the normal sign
of total breakdown plot.



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




The poet’s reward is only fatigue —
no more than that, and always so,
when not a single trace or streak
of conscious lie you let slip through.

Through years both poison and fatigue
accumulate — life’s venom too.
And though a final point you seek,
a blot will form and overrule —

a blot that outweighs the point itself,
if, spent, you fall — then truth is plain:
to collapse within the fight
means you were strong within the strain.



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



An Unusual Daisy Fortune-Telling

I’ll pluck a daisy — not for love,
but where I’ve gone astray above.
Yet is there sense in asking fate?
If you are born, you simply wait
to stumble, fail, and misalign —
that seems the role that you design.

Around is rot and slow decay,
a world where truth has lost its way.
In every generation’s line
you kneel in fear, accept the sign —
a common state, a well-known art:
to fail is simply in your part.



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



“Real Men”

For aggression no one needs
a reason — if the weak ones stand
in their way. Like frogs in reeds
before the monster’s iron hand,

they shift at once to goat-like guise
beneath the wheels of greater evil.
Frogs are crushed — and still it tries
to act the same, though just a swivel

of cruelty planned ahead,
for Evil knows where crowds are bred:
it gathers fools through webs of lies,
and density of herd replies.



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



On “Happiness” and Something Else…

The “happy” one —
a fool, is done:
a synonym of wrecked minds.
The one whose head
has cracked instead
is called “normal” in these times.

Be quiet now,
accept the vow —
and all will somehow settle.
In darkness deep
you learn to creep —
a smiling wreck of metal.

A happy clown
near cliffs goes down,
the current drags him under.
The happy mind
is often blind
to lies that tear asunder.

And over the edge
the rushing pledge
of chaos takes its toll.
The “happy” one
sees nothing done —
the lies have filled his soul.



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



Exposing the Rot of the Crowd

When you expose the crowd’s decay,
do not fear — though slaves may rage.
Soon their master comes their way,
Cain of lies upon the stage.

He returns to stir the trouble,
wipe all thoughts of vengeance out.
All their hatred bursts like bubbles —
fear and lies replace the doubt.

Once again in lies they’re stranded,
half-comforted by crumbs they’re given,
moving where they are commanded —
deeper into rot-driven living.

Every “solution” they devise
only deepens the decay.
Thus the cycle multiplies —
and truth keeps slipping away.



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



Pessimism and wisdom stand side by side

Pessimism and wisdom dwell
together — few escape the spell
and fail to turn into a vile
and selling-out, corrupted style.

If judgment comes, then what you find
is bitter foam upon the mind —
a layer of sadness over thought,
as everything begins to rot.

You watch decay in clear review,
a world on knees before the few
who serve the Evil without shame,
where Honor died without a name.

All judgments turn to darker tones,
and hope for change has turned to stone —
no future left to call your own,
just silence carved in rotten bone.



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



The World’s Execution Block, or Bureaucracy, “the People,” and the Thinkers

Backroom schemes beneath the floor,
“new policies” above once more —
genocide is on the chart,
all for “well-being” of the heart.

The stump is “people” — dull and blind,
an axe is waiting close behind
for those who cannot stand the grime
of herd-like fools and wasted time.

Though now the axe is just a flat
and lifeless room where spirits rot —
a state of drifting out of life,
where thought itself is cut like knife.

And there, no fool can call it home —
no place where thinking minds may roam.



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



The Slave-Owners’ Amusement

“My smile is just a sign of gain.”
And so the cruel game goes again:
the slaves are not just slaves — they pose
as masters of their own supposed.

But there’s a flaw inside the play:
the Earth is prison anyway.
And if the herd calls rot “freedom,”
then “success” is just a phantom.



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



“Progress” Without Makeup

A goat’s whole “work” —
to serve the Dark.
A fool’s concern
is hide-and-skin.

Soul and mind?
Don’t waste that kind
of empty air.
Just chew and stare —
that’s all worth “fair”.

This is the “rise”,
this so-called prize —
a press on beasts
for endless feasts.

And “exceptions”?
Those rare directions
only confirm —
the rot’s a firm
global swarm.

They sink in lies,
and multiply,
becoming more
of crawling lore.

The shadow’s slaves
bend down like waves —
on trembling knees
their brains at ease.



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



Breakthrough into the Unseen

Blue and light — the woven thread
of the Soul’s ascending sight.
But the mind is tightly led
through the circuits of the lie.

Always caged within its frame —
dulling waves at overflow,
genocide and endless noise,
fear and nonsense all in tow.

Grasp the basics, switch it on —
inner sense that cuts through guise.
Then escape — and break beyond,
into where the Unseen lies.

A breakthrough there — no turning back —
the Soul’s only path from night.



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



The Strongest Weapon of the Inhuman — The Great Mighty Lie

The Great Mighty Lie will grow
on fear and on obedience too —
and then complete control will show,
the final grip of power through.

And there is nowhere lower still
than trusting “all is fine and right”,
while serving darkness at its will —
a wretched slave in plain daylight.

The servants — dull, a blinded mass —
the herd that never stops to see —
and from that swamp the shadows pass,
and claim the world for tyranny.



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



Everything’s Fine — Thanks to My Charger

“I’m doing just fine —
thanks to my charge line!”

Phone in my hand,
all life is “on stand” —
always connected,
never defected,
always in sync
with the digital link.

Say something real?
No time to feel.
Nothing is “mine” —
just signal and line.

We’ve learned to repeat
what others delete —
it’s easy to cite
what empties the mind.

So nonsense is fine —
we echo it twice,
or three times, or more…
till nothing is ours.



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



Erudition

The “erudite” — the mind long dead,
replaced by memory alone.
False science breaks the world instead
to shards of fact, of half and tone.

He gathers bits — and cuts the Soul
on jagged edges made of lies.
The “erudite” plays servant’s role
where darkness calmly organizes.

To plant a template in each brain
of half-thought, dull and standardized —
for if free thinking should remain,
then all control is compromised.



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



Apocalypse

Decay has reached a point
beyond all words and name.
Corruption joins each joint —
the world is only shame.

All must be torn away,
this mad and rotting sphere —
the demons’ yesterday,
the fools’ adored frontier.

Ahead — a camp of night,
where dreams are laid to dust,
and only blind delight
of idiots remains just.

So rage must wake at last
and sweep this ruin clean —
or else the die is cast
for hell in living scene.

Then mind and soul will fall,
no light will find a door —
you’ll sink, a fly in thrall
down sewage of the poor

astral decay of man,
a world without a name,
where half-demons began
their stinking, hollow game.

But Sun will bring release —
its fire will make things pure,
consuming rot and grief,
that nothing else endures.

A radiant realm will rise
where Spirit takes its throne,
while bought and crawling lies
are lost and overthrown.

So draw the morning Sun
into your chest and bones —
let all its power run
through darkness of these zones,

through sludge of earthly pits,
this near-infernal state —
and enemies’ demise
will come without a fight.
Then burns away the night,
and gardens take its place.



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



Ode to Sheepavirus

The sheepavirus has revealed
how rotten this whole world became —
and how beneath its painted shield
the fascist system showed its frame.

Long gone is mind, and dignity,
and honor from this choking place —
we rot in silent misery,
with vengeance lost, without a trace.

No path remains for talent here
in this foul, stinking madhouse game —
just endless swamp of loss and fear,
not life, but digging through the same.

Here “friendship” is just empty noise,
and “love” a sport of hollow skin —
you stand alone among the voids,
while bitterness crawls from within.

Only a fool will leave a mark
in this world’s refusal of flame —
they sing of chaos, blind and dark,
and bleat, forgetting why they came.

The inner call — the heart’s own voice —
that once could guide through night and dust —
is drowned beneath imposed “choice”,
obey the system — that’s a must.

Fascism rules, just changing masks,
it wears new faces every age —
resist it, and you’re gone at last,
submit — become a beast in cage.

They turn you into something tame,
a tool for their corrupted hand —
and when they’ve used you in their game,
they end you too — as they had planned.

You won’t stay long in this foul drain,
this stinking pit of human waste —
there’s only one way left to reign:
to break it all, with fire embraced.

With fire born of Sun’s own light,
when called upon by human will —
it burns the house of endless blight,
and cleanses all, and burns it still.

And in that flame we also go —
not lost, but freed from rotten years —
we die as light, in final glow,
consumed with all its lies and fears.



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



Destroy the Rot

I’m Ukrainian in blood and bone,
and Russian in my verse and tone.
But filth around us is so small —
a parasite pretending tall.

Strike down the rot, but spare the flame
of those who haven’t lost their name.
For in our land, when truth is gone,
the wrong still tries to claim the throne.

How long will rotten power stay
and mock the world in foul display?
There is no higher task than this:
to break the cycle of abyss.

No war of blind destruction’s call —
but war against the lie that crawls.
Against the dehumanized decay
that drags the living mind away.

One enemy alone is here:
the void that feeds on human fear.
And peoples, all, are not our foe —
but brothers in the world below.

And when that darkness breaks apart,
a clearer world may finally start —
not built on hate, but on release,
where life can breathe again in peace.



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



The New International

Rise up, you people bound in night,
who’ve lost your voice, your will, your right.
A people pushed toward ruin’s gate —
rise up, or else it seals your fate.

The world now bows to fascist reign,
where lies and force command and chain.
And death arrives with “civil” face —
the healer turned to execution place.

This is our final stand in flame,
our last and clearest call by name:
we break the system built on lies,
and humankind again will rise.

Only when bonds are forged as one
can chains of filth be overcome.
When unity becomes the key,
the age of shame will cease to be.

We build a life autonomous,
not ruled by fear or poisonous trust.
We push back darkness, break its grip —
a turn toward light in one hard step.

So build a world where each is free,
a sovereign mind, a dignity.
Where creeping rot no longer grows,
and honest exchange freely flows.

Build communes strong, build councils wide,
and smash the lies they spread with pride.
Let inhuman systems feel the shock
of truth that cracks their iron lock.

For only unity makes strong
the ones who’ve suffered far too long.
Where every hand will help defend
the broken ones, and make them mend.

And victory will come at last —
the fascist night will be the past.
We break the chain, we end the fear —
and that is the good news we hear.



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



Dream

I dreamed a dream: a crowd of wretches
suddenly woke against the tide.
They turned to save the dying nature,
and built a Temple of New Light.

They grew attentive, calm, and steady,
and learned to guard the flame within.
And all lost hopes became now ready
to rise from ashes, free from sin.

The world, by miracle, turned justly,
and justice ruled with open hand.
And slaves were “happy” — yes, they trusted…
then suddenly the curtain slammed.

For even dreams refuse illusion,
when hollow hopes begin to rot;
oblivion brings no true solution,
nor hides the filth we’ve not forgot.

The filth of shame and slow corruption,
the dust where broken worlds now lie.
Not yet enough is dull disruption
to make this ruin seem divine.

But dulling minds will come much faster,
and finish all this tragic game.
No refuge left for hidden laughter,
no exit from the scripted shame.

These schemes will crown the empty-headed
as “highest stage” of humankind.
And when the hour of ruin’s bled in,
the world dissolves into the blind.

Yet there is one way — sharp and cunning,
for cunning answers cunning hand.
And all that crawls will meet its burning —
the Sun can cleanse this fallen land.

If we absorb its morning power,
if fear is cast away like dust,
we’ll stand no longer bent and lower —
but something like a light made just.