More "Knowledge" — Less Belief
More "knowledge" means less faith,
"Knowledge" turns to faith again.
Blindly trust the "pioneers,"
In the lies that science spins.
This filth begins to spread,
With "Inquisition" in its tread.
Know for yourself — such daring feat
In a world where lies repeat.
Only a few will stand apart,
And that’s why the world’s a broken art.
It won’t revive, it’s doomed, you see —
When beasts make laws, there’s no decree.
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Like the "Secret Services"
The ******* lord —
A heavy price he’s scored.
But the "services" of fake states,
With drugs, they claim their noble fate.
Escobar’s gone, but "services" thrive,
They’ve taken it all, they’re still alive.
Murderers, worse than any ****,
"Services" — a label for the drug.
The beasts serve the ones who hide,
Madmen running wild inside.
They’ve watched the movies, seen the show —
Where heroes are the filth below.
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*** Shaker — A Million Views
An ***-shaker — a million views,
A poet? None, that's old news.
A world of fools, that's how it’s told,
Where poets are as good as old.
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Almost Bookkeeping
The "balance" is closed,
The end — in the "passive" line,
The chance to live’s been lost,
To thrive — no longer mine.
The rest is trash,
A build-up of lies,
The saving of souls
From total demise.
The chance is gone,
"Assets" worth nothing now.
It's all decadence,
With reserves wiped out somehow.
Well then, bankrupt,
The world falls deep,
Humans like cattle —
End of life’s steep.
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Like "Causality"
And B follows A,
Repeats itself too fast.
But B’s called cause —
A mistake, unsurpassed.
It’s just the habit,
Labeled “causality,”
The mind’s a sieve,
In vanity's reality.
We learn? WE NAME!
Opinions in place of thought —
Just nonsense, all the same,
This plague that we’ve sought.
It kills the mind,
The search is what we crave,
The end’s decay defined,
In which we soon shall cave.
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The Deputy
A deputy — disgrace and shame,
A twisted mind, in darkness tame,
With "approval" for the beast’s law,
A world of decay, with no more awe.
In it, money blinds it all,
Excuses rise, but they will fall.
The Final Judgement won't believe,
And all the rot will burn, no reprieve.
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Pynya
Pynya hears, Pynya knows,
He rules the people, high and low,
With lies, with fear, with sticky dread —
In that "land," you walk with dead.
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What Strikes Is Not the Madness of Orders, But the Zeal of the Executors
The overdrive of idiots,
Under creatures' rule, no wit,
Shocks the wise —
As faith in the future dies.
What impressed in CowID's game?
Not the beasts' orders — but the same,
To evil's call, they blindly race,
Performing lies with "boundless grace".
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The world’s a stage — and we, they say, are players?
But players of a rundown, burnt-out stage,
Where each dreamed Hamlet’s grief to once portray —
Yet played a fool, a dunce upon the page,
And studied not the craft, but how to "climb" his way.
They all forgot: true art exists for art.
To serve the Muse is glory, not a trade,
Not boiling rotten feelings for a part
In shows where hacks direct and truth’s betrayed.
Those who rose high and won the leading scenes
Weren’t those with talent, heart, or measured tone —
But those who pushed with elbows, fierce and keen,
And fought their way to seize the starry throne.
The stage has burned. The elbowed, lacking grace,
Now seek another stage to strut and play —
But none remains. The last chance to embrace
Real passion’s flame was squandered, tossed away.
Now nothing’s left but groaning in despair,
Awaiting roles of traitors marked for death,
And learning pain — the price of art laid bare,
As Spirit speaks in every labored breath.
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Anti-Psychiatric Fantasy
Inject a "downer" — let it sting,
To feel this Hell more crystal-clear.
To hell with all that "well-being" —
Only freaks feel cozy here.
The world turned upside down, they chase
The "higher ground" with rabid pride,
Declare all spirit realms a waste,
And ride ambition's bloated tide.
Obsessed with power, cash, and speed,
He’s "cheerful", "stable", smug and bold —
But truly, he's devoid of need:
A half-dead clown with guts gone cold.
Through pain you’ll wake in Hell’s abyss,
Through pain, the face of Evil see.
Only morons call this bliss.
Pain plus Clarity — that’s free!
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Pre-Flight Fantasy
To fly! Who cares if you might crash,
Your bones a mess, your soul unstrung?
They’ll rot regardless in the trash
If all you do is hold your tongue.
The dead are calm — they always are,
And most are corpses, still in breath.
But if you never shoot for stars,
You celebrate slow-rotting death.
So grow the Wings of Art — they sprout
From feathered lines your hand will weave.
Through flight, let Spirit cast out doubt,
And all that fear you still believe.
That clings like rot, won’t let you soar,
No matter how you strain or pray.
There is no choice — it’s fly or floor.
It’s UP — or rot away!
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Suckers and Night Terrors
All the suckers, round and plastic,
Puffed with lies — then pop, they drop
Into nightmares grim and spastic,
Where the meek get crushed nonstop.
“Just obey,” “believe,” “don’t question” —
That’s a loser’s sacred code.
So the **** with fake intentions
Easily infect the load.
Terror, filth, and fear they offer
To the dimwits of all kinds,
Claiming, “It’s for safety, softer
Lives” — for demons tanning hides.
Figurative? Maybe. Barely.
Formally — it’s lemon time:
Squeeze the sucker dry and fairly.
In this hell, fear-fuel is prime.
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Loss and the Cost
A heavy loss — of wit, of pride —
And then the price is paid in full:
You rot in filth, where lies abide,
Among fascistic, mindless bull.
This stupid world decays, and fast,
Its brains replaced with sheepish fluff.
But give the fascists time — at last
We’ll live like amoebas: dumb and tough,
Devouring crap to store in bulk,
Then crapping just to make a point —
Enough to make the germs sulk
And envy every bloated joint.
False plagues, like gods, now rule the land —
Inventing more so none escape.
With every jab, a rotten brand,
In poison’s name — salvation’s shape.
Corruption spreads in every crack,
While Evil lies attack and feast.
There's no clear road, no turning back —
Just rot beneath the lab coats' priest.
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The Autumn of the World
They count their chickens in the fall —
And how? They chop their heads, that’s all.
The same fate waits the flock of sheep:
Fascistic rot runs strong and deep.
It’s everywhere — and yet just bleating,
Excuses soft, submissive pleading.
Their trembling voices feed the flames,
While ******* play their butcher games.
With double force they strike and bind,
Then paint it “care for humankind.”
They cage the herd in wires and codes —
A prison dressed in safety modes.
They’ll shoot fresh poison in your vein
If you don’t flee their fenced domain.
That’s how they’ll count the sheep once more —
Still waiting, drooling at the door...
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Mockery Science for the Mindless Poor
They laugh it off — dismiss and scoff —
When topics get too rough to hold.
What shakes their "science" right clean off
Reveals it built on lies and mold.
It clings to charts, deceit, and graphs,
Pretending strength through shallow frames.
But fraud and schemes, like poison drafts,
Are how these beasts perfect their games.
From CowID lies to “circles” drawn
In crops — they mock, deny, distort.
The Rotten World Bedlam rolls on,
With parasites who twist the “port.”
A flood of facts gets shaved to none,
Their “theories” cut to fit the mold.
No arguments — just memes for fun.
And poor minds? They consume what’s sold.
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Fantasy
The tears keep falling, rolling still —
But truth? They simply won’t believe.
"Sleep on it — you'll find the will,"
Then line up bright, naïve, naïve...
A fantasy. All that’s true
Are lies and tears — no light, no flame.
The darkness wants obedient crew —
No mind, no soul, no sense of shame.
Tears without the truth are fake,
Just shrieking fits, no deeper cause.
And minds without the soul will break —
Most are soulless now, because...
The media feeds the slaves pure lies
With every broadcast, every claim.
And soon we’ll see parades arise —
As fascism returns in shame.
CowID served as training drill,
Darkness won — and loud, and fast.
The crowd were cowards, dumb and still —
This world’s a joke. A farce. A blast.
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In the Sandbox
"Take your toys and leave my ***!
And don’t you dare to *** again!"
Though they're "grown-ups" — still a lot
Never truly use their brain.
"Teenage minds" in grown-up skins —
That's the norm, a global trend.
Add delusions, fed like sins —
And the madhouse has no end.
In this world, where dumb’s a prayer
Chanted like a holy creed,
No one grows — they stall right there,
Trained to serve, not think or lead.
They may look like full-grown men,
But inside — wild kids at play.
Fed on lies, they sleep again,
Numb and docile every day.
Lies control the game. The wise
Must outgrow this plastic trap.
But for minds that never rise —
Old-school lies still fill the gap.
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Old Optimists
Old optimists still trust the tales,
As they did in the days of yore.
Once traitors spoke with louder wails —
Today, Judas rebels once more.
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Zero and Nothing
From birth, you start in negative,
And soon you’re trapped, it’s clear to see.
The system’s built to push the sieve,
Making “school” the brain’s debris.
They castrate every rebel’s mind,
And “maturity” brings empty toll —
Like luck’s a joke that’s left behind.
Yet still the poor declare it’s whole.
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Chemical Attack
A chemical attack —
Food and "medical care,"
Lies to send the fools back,
Wasting them with despair.
They say, "Science protects,
Keeps your health in check,"
But food’s just wasteful effects,
And no one stops to check.
No problems here, they say,
While idiots believe —
Memes lead the clueless way,
And “care” is just a weave.
They’ll starve you slow, erase the truth,
Idiots repeat the lie,
A parade of selling proof,
Under fake smiles, they cry.
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A Song Left Unfinished…
If a song holds no delusion,
That's a pity, that’s a flaw.
Life throws in its own intrusion —
Sticks for those who honor law.
No one hears the voice that’s clear —
Noise is what they want to sell.
In this world so dark and drear,
Only madness rings the bell.
Drivel fills the air like smog,
Cheap and ***** monologue.
Only filth gets full attention —
Groaning hard with no dimension.
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Poetry Fatigue
When poetry comes in endless streams —
No "roses," no "hydrangea" dreams,
No "glory" sung to kings or lords —
Just weariness in quiet chords.
To fight it, reason is your guide,
But still, it’s hard to dodge the slide
Into those pits where verses stall —
And climbing out? No gain at all.
You rise, but wisdom doesn’t grow —
The poet’s path is cursed and slow.
Forget about some grand ascent —
It’s not for bards the stars were meant.
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Dogmatism of Pseudoscience and the Goals Behind It
Dogma rules — it's off the meter.
Pseudoscience, clear as day:
Full of lies and raving fever,
It will never change its way.
Those who fund it seek a mission —
Not religion, but control.
Feeding fools with fake ambition,
Waiting till it takes its toll.
Change will come — a camp is looming,
Digital, with rules unclear.
Truth will hide in faulty coding,
Chips in hands — the law is near.
There, fake plagues will serve as anchor,
Poison will be sold as cure.
Serve them well — avoid their anger.
Life for humans? Not so sure.
--- Total 23 poems. ---