Walking Bombs with Timed Mechanisms
Timed mechanisms inside,
Built by fascism’s cruel design—
Daily cares that bind the mind,
For fools who bow and fall in line.
You rise at dawn without a bell,
Like wounded prey, a ticking spell—
Something’s ticking, don't you see?
Soon you’ll be a force for cruelty.
If you don’t break from blind submission,
The trivial chaos, senseless mission,
And anxious fears that guide the reign—
Desires are ruled by fear and pain.
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Lies from Every Iron, or "Information" and Other Services
From fascist filth, I rise in pain,
I bow and switch the iron on.
With lies, I pull the world in chains,
A shameful realm of "services" gone wrong!
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The Miracle of Nonsense
A miracle of nonsense, hear—
It dulls the mind, makes things unclear.
Who came for souls amidst the filth,
In a world so full of endless guilt?
Satan. With his hollow lies,
He tortures souls with no disguise.
Fools can swallow nonsense whole—
Just look at CowID's deadly toll.
They showed it clearly, loud and plain:
Many minds have gone insane.
Few dissent, the rest comply—
Our task? Just talk and let it die.
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Smears and Pseudoscientific Nonsense
A naked beast in reckless flight,
Its body stained, hits canvas tight.
"Is this called art?"—for fools, indeed,
The answer’s simple—no great need.
The filth is praised by vile and base,
To test how deep the fall from grace.
The crowd has sunk—are they still men?
They’ll rot, then sink, then rot again.
A critic, paid to hail decay,
Will turn pure light to foulest clay.
For cash, he’ll **** what dares to shine,
Exalting filth like it’s divine.
See, take Picasso—paints and boards—
That’s all his scribbles are, my lords!
Yet push the name—"Behold! How grand!"
Thus war on reason’s close at hand.
They fight for minds, for souls, for will,
Through filth they twist and mold you still.
Through fraud they plant absurd belief—
And fools embrace it, to their grief.
But don’t! Look out with your own sight,
And let your mind discern what’s right.
Or else you’ll turn into their spawn—
A wretch their twisted hands have drawn.
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Satan and Earth
The steward stepped into the Hall,
But found no master there.
The servants, weak and doomed to fall,
Were lost in dull despair.
He seized the throne, he made the rules,
A tyrant, harsh and sly.
The meek obeyed like frightened fools—
And how the Fiend did sigh!
But time had come to pay the price,
To settle every debt.
The Fiend and Evil fell like dice
To Hell, where they were set.
Yet one stood firm—no slavish pawn—
He passed through Heaven’s gate.
For justice shines, still marching on,
Through all the bounds of fate.
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The Shell of Lies
Peter Harris, trapped inside,
Cannot break his fragile shell.
Lies seep in through gaps so wide,
Twisting nature—warping well.
Layer lies upon another,
Till his armor’s thick and strong.
Soft ones, run—there is no cover!
Cry or wail—it won’t be long.
Armored shells now fill the spaces,
Choking life in poisoned air.
Toward the BEAST, the fate it chases—
Armored hordes are floating there.
ARMOR-BEAST now sets them chasing,
Soft ones lost beneath the tide.
What began this dark erasing?
Filth that festered deep inside.
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Mediocrity and Means
Do they survive on what they earn?
Oh no—don’t be naive!
Inheritance at every turn,
And fools that fools receive.
True talent makes them shy away,
A living, biting shame.
The meek and hollow store for days,
Yet hoard their worthless claim.
And hacks will always lend a hand—
They sail a single wave.
While talent shines, it’s quickly banned—
No market for the brave.
A poet? Writer? Cast aside
All dreams of gain or fame.
You dig for worlds yet left to rise—
Not writing for their game...
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The Price of "Success"
For some—elite,
For some—a grind.
Success? So sweet—
For all, designed.
They break your mind,
Corrupt your soul.
You walk in blind—
Cash is the goal.
But keep your mind,
And stand your ground—
No wealth you’ll find,
No fortune found.
Success is theirs
Who sold their core.
The fool who cares
Stands lost—ignored.
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The Puppet Show
In politics, the same old game—
They wag their fingers, scold.
Yet hidden hands still call the plays,
Deciding blood runs cold.
They choose if wars ignite or cease,
What chaos will unfold.
Elections? Truth? A madman’s peace—
A lie forever sold.
A line of puppets, set to go,
In every shade and hue.
The "leaders" march to steal the show—
A shame in plainest view.
Their "will is free"—or so they claim,
Yet dance at filth’s command.
A sneeze, a cough—blown into flames,
Till death is close at hand.
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The Wheel of Wretched Life
It turns, it grinds, through pain and strife,
And leads to sorrow’s pit.
"To serve your land"—a noble life?
A fool believes in it.
They preach of homeland, power, pride,
All wrapped in golden lies.
Yet **** still rules, and side by side,
The clean are dirt in eyes.
If born in chains, you'll sink in grime,
Forever dragged below.
They call it "order"—filth sublime,
While lords just watch the show.
Their whips in hand, they crack them loud,
While dangling sweet rewards.
We drown our grief in drunken clouds,
Then march to serve once more.
The "Motherland" commands again—
The mindless sent to die.
The honest wail, yet all in vain—
As propaganda cries.
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The Dreadnought Comes
The dreadnought sails through mines and waves,
It reaches port at last.
A cheering crowd in banners waves—
"The Leader’s here!" they blast.
A crowd? Or just a mindless mass?
A leader? Or a brute?
No doubt, the ******* rule the class,
While sheep stay dumb and mute.
And so it was, and so it stays,
The cycle spins again.
Now dreadnoughts change in modern days—
Yet worse are those who reign.
The Overton-lit windows shine,
Far worse than war and strife.
Deceit in megatons refines—
And drags us down from life.
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The Industry of Nonsense and Stupefaction
Nonsense feeds the foolish mind —
Industry of modern kind.
BEASTS need mobs without a thought,
Better yet—an idiot lot.
Stupefaction leads the way,
First — the home in its decay,
Like a chain that pulls along,
Then the school — the BEASTS’ foul song.
Through the STENCH their voices spread,
Till it rots the soul and head.
Day by day, the grip is tight—
Soon, we’ll rot away in blight.
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Cataclysms Exist to Sweep Away the Infernal
Revolutions stand in vain —
Hell on Earth will still remain.
Only storms of fire and flood
Save the Soul through ash and blood.
Cycles passed—yet Earth is still
But a prison for the will.
Countless souls, corrupt and weak,
Perished in the purge we seek.
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Methods of Rashist War and Propaganda
Onward limps the maimed to fight!
Won't comply? Then face the night.
TV blares its twisted call—
"Volunteers"—a countless thrall!
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A bullet’s blind,
A lie — like mind.
Both will tear
The thoughtless bare.
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The Nature of This Little War
It’s simple: charge ahead once more,
If madhouse minds still yearn for war.
The "nation," almost to a man,
Fits well within this darkened plan.
A tragic farce, a grim display—
"Rose from its knees"—in filth to stay.
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Division
The "nation"—rabble, lost in haze.
A poet rising through the maze,
A writer—none in sight at all,
Just madness echoing its call.
Yet Consciousness may pierce the gray,
Defy, ascend—who finds the way?
A fool-born child, a mindless spawn—
And yet—a BLADE that cuts the dawn.
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Mind’s Sarcoma
Sarcoma—coma,
Rotten mind,
And filth is all that you will find.
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Pesticides, or Earthly "Paradise"
Poisoned apples, ripe and red,
Paradise—where all are fed.
Yet the fools, in blind delight,
Fight for scraps as if in fight.
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The Wretched Slave
A feeble mind, a shriveled soul,
His only pride—his wealth, his dole.
No greater dream, no higher call,
Just hoarding trash—that’s all in all.
And countless thralls like him arise,
The world is doomed before our eyes.
Yet graves won’t line the roads we tread—
This Armageddon cheats instead.
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Propaganda Drum
The drumbeats loud—
The law’s not proud.
Like CowID’s plight—
Fear, shame, and blight.
--- Total 21 poems. ---