Alchemy of the Soul

“Look into your own soul and find the spark of truth the gods placed in every heart—and only you can fan it into flame.”
— Socrates


In this World of Lies and Screaming,
Truth still flickers — dim, but gleaming.
Seek it deep in your own chest —
Fan the fire, forget the rest.

Hell below is choked with rot,
Darkness reigns and reason’s not.
Even air's replaced with stink —
Dumb and dumber barely blink.

O₂ gone? Then comes the art:
Soul’s transmutation — fire start!
Not your grandma’s alchemy —
No old-school philosophy.

Learn it raw. No printed crutch.
Books can’t teach you half as much.
Go within — or rot like meat,
Wormlike, writhing in defeat.



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Crusader Approach

A crusade no more —
Now it’s the approach,
With a red ******* cross
Backing treason by coach.

If a knight strikes the blow —
It’s a glorious feat;
If an idiot kills —
You’re the one in defeat.

They jabbed the dumb herd
With some cheap toxic brew,
While spewing absurd
Lies the sellouts once knew.

They hired the ****
To lie and "to heal" —
Now Reason is numb,
And Truth must conceal.

If Honest and Wise?
You’re marked as a threat.
The Bedlam is global —
For the smart — prison set.

They’re building the camps,
Extinguishing minds.
The red cross is stamped
While the demons dance blind.

The crusade was fiction,
A tale they once told.
Now traitors wear kindness —
But masks can’t hide mold.

New lies every hour,
And none call it crime.
"Spiritual power"?
Flatlining in slime.



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The Global Guild of "Wasted Work"

The Guild of Wasted Work —
Disgraceful, dull, and fake.
They lie with polished smirks
Till Reason starts to break.

The rest is just décor —
Cars, gadgets, fashion, trash.
Some quality? — Maybe.
But food? It reeks of gore —
All "care" for slave-class rabies.

Too many slaves? The Lord
Now cures them through a war.
Cull tactics he adored
Still leave him wanting more.

The herds, still far too dense,
Are tagged as "nations" now.
A thinning makes some sense —
He plans to cull the crowd.

Three quarters of the globe
Now live with heads reversed:
The *** replaces lobe —
A plan that’s well-rehearsed.

A sea of ***** reigns,
Some even passed tech schools.
But seekers with bright brains?
They’re vanishing like fools.

The Guild — that rotting hive
Where demons wear a crown —
Is twitching, barely alive,
Still inching toward their throne —
Measured, as planned, by every *** they own.



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Reflections of Sorrow

The grim and grunting crowd, through toil and grinding pain,
Was turned into a mob — deranged in soul and brain.
The world grew foul, pathetic, nauseous, obscene —
And worth no more than all that blind, obedient scene.

The dust of heirs — just humans in disguise —
A mockery of fate beneath their lifeless eyes.
The poet dreamed of Light, of Truth, of wonder’s flame —
But reaped mere dust — mad slaves without a name.



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The Satanists’ Solidarity

"A man may rise either by his own cunning or by others' stupidity."
— Jean de La Bruyère


The game is rigged, the path is clear:
Climb on fools, spread lies and fear.
That's how Bedlam runs its show —
Step on heads and up you go.

But don’t you sleep — the next in line
Will crush your spine to reach the climb.
And the fool you left below
Might bite your ankle from the snow.

So brace yourself — embrace the vice.
The only way to scale this ice
Is join the cult where evil thrives —
In Satan’s ranks, teamwork survives.



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Long-Distance Therapy

"A man should do the kind of work that, though physically hard, brings peace to his mind."
— Xunzi, 3rd century BCE


To run long miles, alone, unfazed,
Amid a world so cheaply crazed,
Where life itself, once Nature's song,
Is sold in shapes absurd and wrong —

That run can shift the mind’s decay,
Make haunting thoughts just drift away,
Unbind the chains of days gone mad,
And spark a life not quite so sad.

The change is small — some hours a week —
But even tyrants grow less bleak.
Endorphins plant a gentler seed,
A balm for those too lost to plead.

The worried soul may clear the mist,
The dullard rest from serving twists
Of Lies — for even they must yield,
When breath and will take up the field.



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Thematic Crisis

A crisis of themes — it comes with the grind:
This crude little world leaves so little to find.
Prose can still scrape by, but verse takes the blow —
The yield turns to weariness, painfully slow.

This boredom, this dullness leaves barely a spark
To seek out subtopics still left in the dark.
And writing new takes on Decadent moans
Just grates on the teeth, just rattles the bones.

The world is a zoo-circus, loud and deranged,
Where apes with syringes or bombs are exchanged
As “the people,” or “masses,” or some other name —
But the tropes are exhausted; they all feel the same.

In this starving of meaning, what poet can thrive?
Write of nature? While doom is already alive?
There's no thrill in the meadow, no joy in the stream —
In such days, to stay silent may well be supreme.



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Mainstream
"The approval of the crowd is proof of total failure."
— Lucius Seneca, 1st century AD

The crowd’s approval — slaves in chains,
Becomes a verdict, grim remains.
Only nonsense fills the holes,
Infected minds, enslaved souls.

Now it's worse, a deeper plight:
In the realm of nonsense, tight,
The media’s vile, the filth’s in full,
And if you’re mainstream, you’ve lost it all.



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Like "School"

A pen for lambs, where the foolish sheep,
Teach all the rules that the stall will keep,
The Chief Goat’s their father, in place of a sire,
The stall’s their homeland, their heaven, their pyre.

They’ll teach obedience — all rules, no harm,
Not for slaughter, but for some calm.
And the ideal? A sheep in a wheel,
Hailing the pointless, the worthless deal.

They'll hang so much ******* on their brains,
You’d think meat plants were made by their chains.
The young ones will hurry, they’ll always rush,
To follow commands: the shepherd’s hush.

What’s needed for sheep, they’ll always care,
For other concerns, they’re unaware.
Don’t believe? You’re a fool, a mental case —
They’ll kick you out in the name of the Goat’s grace.

The rules aren’t from the Chief Goat, it’s true,
But from those who seek to shear and chew.
The “learned” donkey hides the scam,
For besides their carrot, they don’t give a ****.



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Supercrap

Overrated crap, long gone,
Now inflated, bloated, drawn.
Too lazy to think? —
They’ll make you cattle with that stink!



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Impossibility Surrounds

Impossibility surrounds you tight,
Through it all, you walk through life.
Slowly, strength begins to fade,
And in your pockets, only strife.

The spiritual path, so bright in myth,
Is blocked by walls of endless death.
Today it cracks with cunning might —
Yet soon, a stronger wall will rise in sight.

It will be tougher, and you weaker,
So use your mind, and think it through,
To march through Evil, ever bleaker —
Barriers everywhere, no light in view.



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The Attacks of the Foolish

To the fools of Darkness, attacks align,
As if the virtues of Good are fine.
The lies of Evil reach their peak,
With Satan here, a god to seek.



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Fantasy

Heavenly infantry,
A battalion all its own,
Smashes monsters in Hell,
Driving out what’s overthrown —

Submission, lies, and fears.
The fools won't bend their knees!
Better death upon the block,
Than the Pure Light, which frees.

The plight of that infantry —
Captured, in the end, it stands.
A soldier now a fool,
In Hell, the law commands:

If not dumbed down — you’re lost,
If you don’t yield — you’re a foe.
And so the force is tossed
By poisonous lies that flow.

Heavenly infantry,
Drowned in seas of deceit:
To obedient idiots,
No enemy’s defeat.



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"Paper Scrapers"

We write —
We breathe.
Silence falls —
In the wild of the world, you’re lost.
So write! Not with blood — but poison:
Too many pests in this world to lessen!



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Over the Abyss of Lies

A grasshopper leaps across the field.
You jump from lie to lie,
Forgetting Honor, Spirit, Will,
Over an abyss where Mirages lie.



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So-Called "Goods"

What goods?! Dumbing down,
Deceptions, fears. What’s to gain
From the decay of Mind and Soul?
The dust and chains of counterfeit gain.



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Giants of Spirit-Mind

Above the bar of intellect
And spirituality you know,
You cannot see. And the giant
In your blindness will not show.

You’ll only find familiar traits
In him, as you search with despair.
So you'll meet such figures —
False prophets of Strife and Care.



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Suffering and Knowledge

Suffering is the first step to Knowledge—
You see that something’s off, not right:
Endless bliss of delusion, "wisdom,"
Forced upon all, yet naught in sight.

For the crucial part is missing—the answer,
Why your Hell, and what it means.
The wretches offer their advice,
But it’s intolerable to the mind's routines.

And you, if Sensitive, begin to search
For answers and paths of your own,
Leaving behind the Universal Madness—
With it, no truth or light is ever shown.

There’ll be many errors on your way,
But if within you find the Light,
Your soul in Bedlam will not stray—
Behold the Pure Light shining bright!



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Psychotronic Weapons of False Illnesses

The noise of CowID drowned out
All "laws," reason, and shame,
Revealing that the fools are devout—
The majority, with Spirit slain.

In so many, doomed to insanity,
The world spirals into despair.
Prepare your bag for the journey,
And flee to Knowledge, if you dare.



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Freedom

Send the whole world away, no mercy to await,
For in it, only a few are not beasts of fate.
Alone, then curse the Void,
And the Light you'll find, destroyed.



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Dumbing Down: School

The school of fools, a place of woe,
Where servants of Power reap what they sow,
For pennies they toil, with no grace,
While children suffer in this place...



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The Swamp of the Homeland

Caught in the swamp of the homeland’s grip,
You’ll scarcely feel the depth’s cruel trip,
Among the dead, who, closing tight,
Strive to drag you down to night.



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At the End of the War

Imagination’s in decline—
And man is doomed, it’s plain to see.
The masses crave the shallow line,
In an age of narrow minds, we’re free.

They’re everywhere—in books and film,
And in the way we all behave.
What joy, these fleeting sparks so slim—
A flight of fancy, ideas brave!

We gather bits, piece by piece,
The world’s defeated by the mold—
And humaneness is but a dream:
The Law of Decay, so stark and cold.

Bits of thought, of human kind,
When fascism reigns, they’re doomed to fade.
We "live" in this last age of mind—
At war with Reason, we're betrayed.



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The Sensitivity of *******

Tyrants are touchy, and wretched creatures,
Those beneath them are twice as weak—
For orders of Evil, these fiendish features,
Always obey in a war with the Spirit they seek.



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Mark your forehead with green—draw a cross,
A sign that "I’m the target," you decree.
In consciousness, they strike. They'll ****! Yet, arise,
If you’re stitched with the critical truth of the Lie, you see.

With intuition as a tool to heal your wounds,
You use introspection, though it’s scorned—
A terrible thing, if ignored.

The whole world’s within. They cannot defeat,
If illuminated by Pure Light’s heat,
For this is a Fragment of God,
And to harm God, devils cannot be sought.

It’s simple, yet that's the point—
The world has become a Sporting Reserve,
With tickets to hunt and control,
Held by the inhuman, as we observe.

And fools graze, thinking that their gain
Is nourishment, not the bait they take,
Thrown by Evil as they remain,
Deceived by the hooks they mistake.



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The few are right.
No "bravo!" will they hear—
They’ll be crushed as one:
A true Hell, I fear!



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We followed in our fathers' steps,
And once again got stuck in filth.
But now it’s worse: to hell with bullets—
Deceit cuts deeper! Fools believe still

In “rising from their knees,” in “illness,”
As the idiot box proclaimed.
One thing is sure—more useful to Wicked
Is today’s fool, utterly shamed:

When Darkness commands, they’ll build a Camp—
A state-of-the-art, digital one.
The one who stood beneath the red flag
Will become a tale, though mildly spun,

Though fathers tried with boundless effort,
In the five-year plans of old,
Their foolish sons, the pioneers,
Rejoiced at every victory bold.

But the plan had flaws from the start—
It failed to grasp the whole wide world.
Now the plague has brought it together—
WHO's the idol, their flag unfurled.

They’ve united three-quarters of the Earth,
So once again, the Camp will rise.
Though fewer stubborn ones are left,
In numbers, Evil still commands its ties…



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Lies and fears, anxieties—
This is how chaos is made.
All is artificial. Heroism—
Seeing it as the Rotten Charade.



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Through the inertia of the crowd,
A Great Talent claws its way.
In the surroundings, “seriousness”—
Every fool there’s a “giant” at play.

They'll call him madman—
He’s always beyond shallow schemes.
To the lonely freethinkers,
Only problem-solving redeems.

No support to be found,
For them: the world’s a chimera,
A New Madness on the ground,
Their path filled with delusion and terror.



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Living in Delusion

With the mind not allied,
Serving Darkness and Malice wide,
The majority of Earth’s population,
For this, they’ll be destroyed,
And Malice will be overthrown,
As Earth withers under infestation.

I erase the lies around—
The world has rotted from their boastful sound.
I’ll keep doing this,
For in delusion, I won’t persist.

A cataclysm will end
This Malice. It’s been troubling
The Higher Forces for long.
If you are of Spirit,
**** your doubts—
This filth doesn’t belong.

I erase the lies around—
The world has rotted from their boastful sound.
I’ll keep doing this,
For in delusion, I won’t persist.
I’ll keep doing this,
For in delusion, I won’t persist.