Direct your thoughts, let them collide,
Strike the target: Hell's "paradise".
Enough of lies, they’ve taken toll,
And nearly claimed your very soul.

To save your soul, waste not the day—
Dismantle everything, make way.
Brick by brick, tear falsehoods down,
Expose the evil, face the frown.

But if you leave not "values" behind
Within those ruins of your mind,
You’ll cast yourself to yet another
Hellish circle, careless brother.


In Russian:

Разрушение адского "рая" в своём сознании

Мысли кучно направляй
На мишень — то адский "рай":
Ложь тотальная достала —
В ней Душа почти пропала.

Для спасения Души
Разобрать ВСЁ поспеши —
По кирпичикам Чушь, Зло
В своих мыслях. Не свезло,

Если "ценности" оставишь
В тех руинах. Так отправишь
Ты себя на Новый Круг
Ада, мой беспечный друг.

He breaks on immortality,
The poet dives to Hell anew.
Why strive for truth or clarity
When few the soulful lines pursue?

If verses blaze with raw intensity,
Or prose escapes the common sphere,
They rarely pierce the world's insensitivity,
A realm of greed and shallow cheer.

No "literary" grand progression,
Just darkness, silenced by a press—
The SMRAD* churns out its procession
Of noise, deceit, and vile excess.

They amplify the base, the sordid,
And bury sparks of daring thought.
No space for Brightness—Truth’s aborted,
While filth and flattery are sought.

The masses, dull, demand their poison:
"Samizdat? Why, such dreams are fraught!"
And yet, within its fragile cloister,
How much has vanished, left to rot.

For ages now, the game’s been halted,
The world put firmly on mute gears:
Not Stenka here, but bloated, faulted
Gargantua commands their cheers.


Notes:
SMRAD—Resources of Mass Advertising, Agitation, and Disinformation.
Stenka—Stenka (Stepan) Razin, a Russian historical figure.



In Russian:

Самиздат

"И где-то с криком непогашенным
Под хохот и аплодисменты
В пролет судьбы уходит Гаршин,
Разбившись мордой о бессмертье".
Леонид Губанов, "Полина", 1963 г.


Разбившись мордой о бессмертие,
Поэт, писатель в Новый Ад
Спускается. К чему усердие?
Лишь редкий Чуткий виршам рад,

Когда накал в них запределен.
А проза, коль не ширпотреб,
Обычно редко бьёт по цели
Средь мира жалких непотреб.

Литературного процесса
В дни мрачные в помине нет:
Мирок находится под прессом
Тотальных СМРАДов — гонят бред

Они, раскрутят только мерзость,
Что попадает в общий ряд.
В загоне Яркость, Честность, Дерзость —
Елей с чернухой жрёт покорный гад.

Не гадов средь народцев мало:
Литература? — самиздат!
И в нём немало уж пропало
В забвении — всем Ярким мат!

А шах поставили давненько,
На паузу поставив мир:
Гаргантюа ведь в нём, не Стенька,
Убожества гнилой кумир.


Примечания. СМРАД — средства массовой
рекламы, агитации, дезинформации.
Стенька — Стенька (Степан) Разин.

Attempting new
Creative endeavors
Reluctant at first,
Old habits fear change
Steadily pushing to prove
To myself
I
Can grow

©2025

Let me
be the last
I'll be  patient
in timeliness
I trust-

gentleness
my hand it grasps
and whispers:
'Why rush?
The dawn
is not yet
the rose
hasn't risen
from the dewy grass
in slumber
still is the thrush

silent is the river
calm is its water
no boatman seen
all nature is serene
time is hushed-

are you in love?
She will appear
you should wait
trust her, you must!'

( It's as though
  I've wakened
  from a dream
  so long past)

I know
and feel sure
  I'll be blessed
though being last-
in oneness with time
in feeling its every pulse
my life will be in joy
abundantly cast.

I was barely 21
when I ran with this older crowd,
(they were between the ages of 30-35,)
and I thought it was something cool,
something special,
I thought I was someone
real grown up and mature,
I thought age had something to do
with sophistication
so, I tried to impress them with Bach & Beethoven & Mozart
while drinking rotgut whiskey out of cheap tumbler glasses
because that’s what I thought grownups
were suppose to do
but instead they’d say,
“this isn’t that kind of party,”
and then they’d exercise their drinking prowess by guzzling down a whole bottle
of Rumplemintz and chasing it with a case
of Icehouse while blasting Screeching Weasel so loud that my neighbors couldn’t exist.
my forethoughts of adulthood had been marred by the stench of reality
and despite the headaches and hangovers
that paired with the morning sun,
I continued on anyhow,
matching them drink for drink
like it didn’t phase me
because I had something to prove;
I wanted to show them
that I was cultivated,
that I could hang,
that I was tough,
that I could run with the big dogs,
that I was all that was man,
(whatever that means)
all I wanted was their approval
that I was something
after so many years of being told
that I was nothing
and I wanted it to be known that I had endurance and stamina
but those addlepated simpletons were too vapid and clueless to notice the ****-stains
in their pants let alone what I was doing.
we were an odd pair, different yet the same;
we shared the same desirous need for intoxication yet our levels of class
were on a parallel universe.
but as time went on,
the framework of realization took shape
and I began to see they were just a gang
of losers with no place to go.
they used up my living quarters
as their party sanctuary:
people getting tattooed in my kitchen
people snorting coke in my bathroom
people ******* in my laundry room
people throwing up in my closets
people ******* in my living room
and it grew tiresome after a while.
so, I had to kick them out of not only my house but out of my life for good.
decades went on, I reached my 40’s,
they reached their 50’s,
and most of them are dead
but the few still living are more dead
than those buried in the ground.
they’re out there now,
enduring a midlife crisis
with bed-wetting regression;
peering down from the hills of nostalgia,
sprinting towards their
social media platforms,
losing their minds over
things they can not control,
smearing opinions around
like **** as if you asked for it
and gnawing away at the bars
of their enclosures for one last taste
of the honey, the pleasure, the folly, the glory
because they’ve become
embittered with world;
a world they hadn’t envisioned
a world they weren’t ready for
a world that’s changed forever
and after all the wild and lawless nights
and after all the rebellion against authority
and after all the broken glass & cigarette holes
they’ve became like everybody else:
unable to face the inevitable.

words that hang like shutters
from broken hinges.

words that hover like nurses
after surgery.

words that splatter like
thin remorse.

I heave with sickness
when they arrive.

I spring with ebullience
when they leave the ** dunk
parts of my mind.

these words
these ******* words
that show up in Pontiacs,
in Plymouths, in Pintos

these nonsensical,
satirical,
antiquated words.

they charge at you
like a dead bovine
swinging from a meat hook.

they crawl towards you
like a silverfish
out of the sink drain.

they creep up on you
like an old ***
rattling a change cup.

why? I ask myself.

why does this happen?

I don’t want this kind of ailment;
give me
bee stings
or bedsores
or steam burns
but not these words,

these words that linger like shingles
across the ribcage of burning torment.

I pray without ceasing
towards a signified God.

I pray for simple sacrifice;

I want suicide rather than poetry.
I want a cow without milk.
I want a statue without structure.
I want a woman without grace.

I can feel the floodgates opening soon
and I think I’m going to puke my guts
out all over this page again.

Water and sky

Take tree
Outline

And shine