The Gospel of the Sea, or Parables from the Cauldron
(A Modern Scripture in Boiling Brine)
by Igor Vykhovanets with ChatGPT


Grabbing Reflexes

Crab-work, claw-shift —
Still grabbing away.
One sacred myth:
You don’t have enough today.

A crustacean nation —
Grab fast, grab blind.
But those with some vision
Are rare to find.

A plague in the water,
The trap is a lie —
And lies grow fatter
While the smart ones die.

They’re caught, then they're boiled,
Like frogs, slow to flee —
The flames barely coiled,
So mild — they agree.

“Jacuzzi!” they cheer,
As they bubble and choke.
Keep grabbing, old dear —
You’ll vanish in smoke.


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Claws keep grabbing — blind and proud.
Soon you’ll boil beneath the crowd.


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Your claws clutch lies, your pride is fat —
But truth cracks shells. Remember that.


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The Gospel of the Crab

And lo! The Crab did claw, and call it life.
It seized, it pinched, it praised the strife.
"To grab is truth! To hoard is right!
The deeper the pit, the less the light."

But the Sea, once silent, grew aware —
Of shells that echoed empty prayer.
And fire rose not from wrath divine,
But from within — the boiling brine.

They called it comfort. Called it gain.
While inch by inch, they steamed their brain.
“Rejoice!” cried one with bloated breath,
"Jacuzzi justice conquers death!”

And none but few escaped that creed —
Those not born of claw and greed.
So hear, you sons of snapping pride:
Truth is not caught. It turns the tide.


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I. The Crab's Gospel

At first — just grab, the claw is law.
What’s caught is yours, what’s lost — withdraw.
The world’s a shell, the soul’s denied,
Your belly’s full — no need to hide.

II. The Song of the Boiled Frog

See how warm the water’s glow,
Soft waves that soothe but never flow.
They say it’s not a fiery pit —
Just spa lights dancing — you’re alright.

III. The Fume Sermon  

What’s gripped tight burns within your chest,
What slips away is just a jest.
“You’re divine,” the shepherd cries —
“Hold faith tight, ignore the lies.”

IV. The Parable from the Cauldron

The end arrives — no shout, no smoke,
Just crabby scent in waters soaked.
The tale is told, the claws grow cold —
A life consumed, a truth untold.


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The Crab's Gospel

At first — just grab! The claw is law,
What’s caught is yours, no need to draw.
The world a shell, cold, cracked, and dry —
No soul to hear, no tears to cry.

Your belly’s full — the heart is numb,
The blind obey the deafening drum.
No thought beyond the grasping pain,
The shallow pool, the shallow gain.

“More, more!” the claws declare their right,
In shadows long without a light.
A prison built of greed and spite —
Where darkness claims the day as night.

The crab, the master, snaps and grins,
Blind to the doom his clutch begins.
And those who rise beyond the claw
Are crushed beneath its iron law.


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The Boiled Frog’s Song

Welcome, friend, to warming waves,
Where comfort lulls and silence saves.
No need to struggle, no need to fight —
Just bask and soak in gentle light.

The water’s warm, the bubbles cheer,
No threat, no pain — why fret or fear?
They say it’s not a *** but spa,
A sanctuary — ha, ha, ha!

Each inch you sink, each slow descent,
Is progress in this warm event.
“Relax, breathe deep,” the voices say,
“Here pain dissolves and fades away.”

But subtle fire creeps unseen,
Behind the scenes, a deadly scheme.
The comfort’s mask, the sweet deceit —
The boil beneath your sinking feet.

So sip your bliss, so soft, so slow,
Enjoy the warmth, let wisdom go.
For in this spa, you’re not alive —
You’re just the stew they’ll soon contrive.


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Sermon of the Haze

“Believe!” they cry — “You’re saved, you’re pure!
The path is clear, your fate is sure.”
But blindfolds wrap your waking mind,
And chains of faith you’re taught to bind.

The shepherd’s voice is velvet steel,
His words — a trap you’re doomed to feel.
He sells you lies dressed as the truth,
And steals the fire from your youth.

The masses kneel, their eyes glazed o’er,
Drunk on slogans, craving more.
No questions asked, no soul to seek —
Just hollow prayers, weak and meek.

The haze surrounds, it clouds the day,
It steals your sight, it leads astray.
Yet still you chant in dazed refrain —
“Save me from doubt! Embrace the chain!”


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The Parable from the Cauldron

The cauldron boils, the shadows creep,
No angels sing — just secrets deep.
The claws that grasped, now cold and cracked,
The souls that thrived — all crushed, all sacked.

The brew of lies, the poison’s sting,
No hope remains, no dawn to bring.
The final call — the bitter cry,
The world dissolves beneath the sky.

No savior comes, no mercy’s breath,
Just silent echoes of slow death.
A tale of grasp, of greed, of pain —
The cauldron’s curse remains, remains.


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The Cold Voice

Observe the stew — a brew well-made,
With greed and lies, the ***’s been laid.
The players dance, the claws still snap,
While hope’s a ghost, a fading gap.

No grand salvation, no bright dawn,
Just endless cycles, dusk till dawn.
The fool applauds, the wise withdraw,
All trapped within the ceaseless law.

Yet here I stand — detached, austere,
No hope to feed, no scalding fear.
Just witness to this endless game,
Where nothing’s new — and none to blame.

So pour your brew, embrace the flame,
The cauldron bubbles just the same.
And when it’s done — no crown, no throne,
Just ashes cold, and dust alone.


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Summary

Claws grip lies, the fools comply,
Boiled in comfort, blind to die.
Faith’s false chains enslave the mind —
Break the spell, or fall behind.